


Collide

by MorganLeGay



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Anxious Jimmy Kent, Autistic Alfred Nugent, Autistic Daisy Mason, Autistic Thomas Barrow, Bisexual Daisy Mason, Bisexual Jimmy Kent, Changelings, Fairies, Folklore, Friends to Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Magic, Modern Jimmy, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Slow Burn, Time Travel, Time Traveler Jimmy, bc im autistic and i said so, but using the warning anyway to be safe, the only non-con is That Kiss and the aftermath
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2020-12-22 19:13:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21081686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorganLeGay/pseuds/MorganLeGay
Summary: August 1st, 1920. Thomas Barrow prays for the first time in years. He asks for a friend.December 13th, 2019. Jimmy Kent is Christmas shopping and getting ready for the Rawring 20s when an incident in a metaphysical shop propels him back in time almost 100 years.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first attempt at a Downton fic so some of the characterisation is likely to be a bit off. Please let me know if this is the case, it's hard to improve if I don't know where I'm going wrong! Same goes for any errors you notice.
> 
> I'm planning on releasing new chapters every Friday if I can.
> 
> I'm @horology-queers on tumblr so feel free to hmu there!!
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading it!

Thomas’s Tuesday had felt much longer than just a day. He’d woken about an hour and a half before the six o’clock call and been unable to fall back asleep easily, just finally starting to drift back off when knuckles on his door signalled the start of his work day. Since then, he’d hardly stopped, even helping that imbecile Alfred polish the silver when he could have been taking a break, because he knew that if he paused, even to catch his breath, his exhaustion would overcome him and he wouldn’t be able to start up again. Though no one had noticed, he’d hardly had the energy to stand back up after eating his dinner, so he’d dropped into his favourite rocking chair until he gathered the strength to make it up the stairs. He was looking down at the newspaper, but only half reading it. None of the words seemed to be going in. He couldn’t go to bed this early without drawing attention, no matter how much he wanted to, so he’d settled on an hour of pretending to read before going up.

He stole a glance at the clock on the wall. Ah, he’d been there longer than necessary. It was eleven thirty. He folded the paper and stood with a small sigh.

“I’m off to bed, then,” he said as he put the newspaper on the table in case anyone else wanted it- he certainly had no use for it. No one acknowledged that he’d said anything at all. He made his silent way upstairs.

Thomas shut his bedroom door with a soft _ click _ and sat down on his bed. He found himself rubbing the seam of his glove. After sitting for a few minutes, trying to focus only on the way his glove felt under his thumb, trying _ not _ to think about how much he wanted a hug, an arm-slap, a handshake, any sort of skin contact at all, he ran his hand through his hair and shrugged out of his livery. Objectively, he knew the August heat made it sensible to sleep in as little clothing as possible, but he couldn’t rid himself of the dull chill in his limbs. He hung his livery in the wardrobe and pulled on a thick woolen jumper he sometimes slept in during the winter. It was a size too big for him and so he could never wear it out of his room, but it was cozy and almost made him feel safe. Almost.

He threw himself onto the bed and wriggled under the covers. _ Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry _ . He shut his eyes and tossed and turned as he tried to find a comfortable position. He couldn’t. Burying his face in his pillow, he bit back a sob. He just wanted a _ friend _ . How was it possible for someone to be so repulsive that he couldn’t even be comfortably conversational with just one person? That those around him, the people he worked with day in, day out, who called themselves a _ family _, wouldn’t even acknowledge him when he spoke unless it was out of bitterness or cruelty?

Searching for distraction, his eyes flickered towards the bookcase. On his last half day, he’d picked up a few cheap books of Norse mythology in a secondhand shop in Ripon. He’d always liked stories of magical places and other beings, liked immersing himself in other worlds and escaping his life for even just a few minutes. He felt a strange sense of kinship with monsters and fairies and gods, as though _ he _ wasn’t supposed to exist in this world, either. Just visiting, just passing through, but somehow trapped. He’d stopped believing in God a long time ago (if he’d ever really believed at all), but that didn’t stop him from wistfully hoping that the myths were somehow based in reality.

He shut his eyes tight and sobbed half a desperate prayer. _ Please, if any of you are real, please, please, send me a friend _.

He cried until he fell asleep.

* * *

Jimmy hastily stuffed the _ algiz _ pendant into his pocket and grinned as his flatmate Tate came out the door of the museum gift shop into the weak December sunlight, squinting as her eyes tried to adjust. She put on her sunglasses and pulled her ear defenders down to hang around her neck.

“You get everything you wanted?” he asked. She nodded as she chewed her mushroom necklace and pulled a small plushy Viking out of her coat pocket.

“My new son. Help me name him later.” They started to walk. “Metaphys shop now?”

“Only if we stop by Red Cow on the way,” he said with a nod. “I need manuscript paper.”

“Oh, you just wanna wank over concertinas you’ll never be able to afford!” Jimmy laughed and bumped his shoulder against hers. She shoved back.

When they reached Red Cow Music, Tate waited outside chewing her necklace and squishing her new plushy while Jimmy went in. As well as the manuscript paper, he grabbed new copies of both Musidoku books- he’d misplaced his and, while he’d finished them both several times over and didn’t find them a challenge anymore, they were a good distraction for when he was feeling anxious. He paid up and left the shop, Tate falling into step beside him as they crossed the road to the new metaphysical shop that’d just opened a few weeks ago. They’d both applied for jobs there, but only Tate had got one. Her knowledge of the products was immense, while he’d only been looking to work somewhere quieter than the local Tesco Extra.

Tate immediately struck up conversation with her coworkers who were on duty that day, while Jimmy distracted himself with the rows of model fairies. Each one was different, but they were far from unique- only one of each design was ever on the shelf, but the entire collection was on display in Tate’s bedroom, nestled in various potted plants and in front of her books. Their breakability always made Jimmy nervous about going into her room. He preferred to stick to Funko Pops.

One fairy caught his eye, on a shelf that he could only see clearly if he lifted himself on his tiptoes. Huh. That was a new one. He was of higher quality than most of the little metal-winged numbers, less like the mass-produced pieces and more like the pair Tate’s older brother had commissioned as a house-warming present when she and Jimmy first moved into their flat. This black-winged male fairy wore clothes Jimmy had only really seen in period dramas and old photos in history class at school. His dark hair shrouded his face slightly as he looked down, almost willing Jimmy to pluck him from his perch on the shelf. In the fairy’s half-gloved hand was… a cigarette? That was odd. Definitely not a style choice Jimmy had seen in a fairy statuette before. There was an odd sense of melancholy to the figure that he couldn’t quite place. Was it the stance, or perhaps the stormy grey eyes? The detailing in the fairy’s face was incredible.

“He’s beautiful, in’t he?” Jimmy almost leapt out of his skin. He turned and blinked a few times as his eyes refocused on the room around him. Standing beside him was Cressida, Tate’s girlfriend of eight months who she’d met at university in her Introduction to Theology class. Jimmy wasn’t particularly close with her, but they’d partied their way through Pride season together for the last three years. “He’s a one-off piece, so if you’re thinking of getting him then you’d best do it today. That kind of piece never stays on the market for long.”

Jimmy hummed softly as he thought about it, “How much is he? Probably out of my budget.”

“He’s marked at £40,” Cressy said. “If you look close, you’ll see he’s got a few chips. I’ll let you use Tate’s staff discount though. That takes ‘im down to twenty.” As drawn to the fairy as he was, Jimmy wasn’t sure he wanted to break into his alcohol budget by quite that much. “I’ll leave you to decide.”

Cressy walked off to the other end of the shop, past the till, to offer help to another customer. Jimmy’s fingers itched more and more the longer he looked. The soft folkish chanting that played over the shop’s speakers faded through his ears and brain into soft gusts of wind. His vision swam and his skin felt like someone had just cranked the heating all the way up. Maybe this was what Cressy always meant when she said that her oddities ‘called’ to her. Maybe the fairy wanted Jimmy to take him. Maybe... 

He met the fairy’s unblinking eyes. Clay, or ceramic? He didn’t know how to tell. Tate would. He’d ask her, later. At home. He reached up and wrapped his fingers deftly around the statuette. The fairy- _ his _ fairy- felt hot to the touch. Even though- even though the room had been cold only a few moments ago. Or had it? Through his haze Jimmy was losing all sense of time. That was quite normal, though, for him at least. He often found that hours had slipped away from him while he was at the piano or in the shower. How long had he been in the shop? What time had they got there? He looked at his watch, but the face seemed distant, vague, blank. The fairy burned in his hand. Heat was rising all around him.

He turned and tried to stumble towards the till. It should only be- be three or four paces away. It wasn’t. He stumbled forward and forward and forward in the dim light. It got darker and darker with every step he took until it was pitch black and his legs gave way beneath him.


	2. Chapter 2

Jimmy woke to the sound of birdsong. His body felt heavy and his mind foggy, as though he’d spent a week sleeping off a fever. He wasn’t in his bed, that was for sure. He opened his eyes and slowly pushed himself upright. He was… on a park bench. The sun was just rising, pushing weak light through the early morning fog. Ah, shit. How had that happened? He… definitely didn’t feel hungover, so he doubted he’d been drinking. He patted down his pockets and opened his messenger bag to check nothing was missing.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he muttered like a mantra. Where was his phone? Shit. He stuffed his hand into the pocket of his trousers and- what? These were not his trousers. He’d never seen them before! Maybe he’d been drugged. He must have. Someone had drugged him and stolen his-

Oh shit.

Memories rolled in on a wave of nausea.

He’d been in the metaphysical shop with Tate, about to buy a handsome fairy. He’d- he’d got really dizzy. What happened? How did he get from the shop to the park?

_ Okay _ , he thought, _ I must still be asleep. _ It was the only rational explanation. He reached up and took off his hat. It definitely wasn’t his. It was of a similar period to his fairy’s clothes. It was pretty dope, he had to admit. Maybe when he woke up he’d treat himself to one like it. He ran his fingers across it, trying to ground himself. Trying to stay calm. He’d never had particularly vivid dreams, and he’d definitely never been able to physically _ feel _ anything in one, but he was sure that Tate or Cressy would be able to help him make sense of this when he came to.

He put his hat back on and stood up. The other people in the park all seemed to be dressed in period clothes, like at a reenactment. He didn’t pretend to understand or even really believe in metaphysics or any of the other witchy things Tate did, but he’d have to change his stance on that now. That fairy statuette really _ was _ magic, it was showing him something. Maybe there was a lesson. Stories always said that things like this taught a lesson.

The sun was getting hotter now. Even magic dreams couldn’t really be _ this _ detailed. His breathing quickened. He loosened his tie with trembling fingers. He sat back down and tried to find something to focus on. Something normal, something comfortable. He rummaged through his bag and pulled out one of his new Musidoku books. Thank God they were still there. The cover had changed colour and material, from shiny red to matte brown, but it was still something to focus on. He opened it to the first puzzle and stared, chanting the symbols in his head like a mantra: _ Treble, bass, minim. Crotchet, quaver, semiquaver. Fermata, sharp, flat. _ He didn’t have a pencil, so he scanned and tried to remember where he’d placed things. It was almost impossible, but so consuming that within minutes his breathing was steady and his mind was cleared.

He ran his finger along the edge of the page. _ If this is a dream, I won’t get a papercut, _ he told himself. That was how lucid dreaming worked, wasn’t it? He winced and drew his hand away. Blood was blossoming from a tiny split at his fingertip. Fuck. He was really here, awake as anything. He stuck his cut finger in his mouth and tried to think. He put the Musidoku book back into his bag and flicked through the other things in there. Nothing seemed to be missing, though a few things had changed slightly. The tangle toy he kept on hand in case Tate misplaced her’s now seemed to be made from painted wood, rather than cheap plastic. The pill bottle he’d just picked up from the pharmacy before the museum was dark glass, but still seemed to be the same thing inside. He’d have to be careful not to break it, but at least he wouldn’t be dealing with withdrawal too soon.

There was something in his bag that… hadn’t been there before. It was a letter, the envelope sealed with dark green wax, stamped with a pawprint and a rune. Tate would’ve known the meaning, but Jimmy had no idea. With trembling fingers, he peeled the letter open as carefully as he could manage. The back flap of the envelope tore slightly, but the paper inside was undamaged.

There were two sheets: the first was a written reference for someone with his name who had apparently worked as a footman for a woman by the name of Lady Anstruther. He frowned at it. Did it mean _ he _ was supposed to find work in… whatever industry footmen were in? He’d only ever had one job, on minimum wage as a cashier. He struggled to keep his own living space clean, so he definitely did not know how to ‘show great initiative in the maintenance of a high standard of cleanliness in a large household’.

The second piece of paper was a scrap that simply read: _ Listen to your heart. Best wishes. _

He was well and truly _ fucked _.

He folded the reference and stuck it back in his bag as he stood up. A walk would probably do him some good, help him work out how the hell he was going to survive in whatever the hell time he was in. Was he even in _ England _ anymore? God, he hoped so. The closest he’d ever come to learning another language was getting a D in his French GCSE, and that was a little more than five years ago. He doubted he could even introduce himself in French anymore.

A man was selling newspapers by the entrance to the park. Jimmy stuck his hand in his pocket as he approached and hoped that he had some money. He did.

He pulled it out and swore. They were English, at least, but he had no clue what these coins were. His pulse pounded in his ears. He scanned each coin in his palm and frantically tried to recall long-forgotten knowledge from history in primary school.

“How much for a paper?” Jimmy asked.

“A penny,” the seller told him. Jimmy almost groaned in relief. He handed over a single penny (which quite fortunately had the words ‘one penny’ stamped across it) and took a paper. He took a look at the date and almost threw up.

It was the second of August, 1920.

For the first time since he woke up, he was desperately glad that Tate wasn’t here.

Jimmy tucked the newspaper under his arm and walked back to the bench he’d woken on, spending far too much energy on keeping his face as neutral and breathing as steady as he could. He sat back down, opened up the paper, and began scanning the jobs column.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for taking the time to read!! I hope you enjoyed, the next chapter will be coming next Friday.
> 
> I feel like the pacing might be a bit off in this chapter, but no matter how much I edited I just couldn't seem to get it to something I felt entirely happy with. I'll probably edit it at a later date, when my writing has improved.
> 
> Chapter length increases a bit after this- I think this will probably be the shortest chapter overall.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter pretty much covers s03e04, but I've rearranged a couple of scenes. Our boys finally get to meet!!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!

Lady Sybil’s return to the Abbey cheered Thomas a lot, especially when she briefly stepped away from her family to tell him how she’d missed him while she’d been in Ireland.

“How have you been, Thomas?” she asked, cheerful and gentle in equal measures. “Oh, I suppose it’s ‘Mr Barrow’ now. How exciting!”

He chuckled awkwardly, “Never a dull moment, milady. It’s nice to see you looking so well. Like my prayers have been answered.” Lady Grantham called Sybil back over.

“We’ll have to catch up properly later,” Sybil told him, touching his arm briefly and smiling warmly before going to sit with her family.

When Thomas entered the servants’ hall after serving lunch, it was with a small smile on his face, still slightly giddy at seeing Sybil again. His smile faltered when he saw that all of the downstairs women seemed to have congregated there. They were crowding around- oh, shit. Thomas felt his pulse quicken and hoped he didn’t look as flustered as he suddenly felt.

“Who’s this?” he asked, looking over the young man that stood before him. Thomas swallowed. The stranger was- quite objectively- beautiful. And definitely his type. Dark blond hair that curled slightly at the tips, bright blue eyes, pink- _ such _pink lips, spread in a confident grin.

“Jimmy Kent, at your service.” The lad’s voice was quite deep (especially for someone relatively small) but crystal clear and smooth as anything.

“I’m Mr Barrow, his Lordship’s valet.” Thomas was concentrating too hard on keeping his voice steady to even think about offering a handshake.

“And I’m hoping to be his Lordship’s footman,” Jimmy explained. “Which is why I’m looking for Mr Carson.”

Before Thomas had a chance to respond, Mrs Hughes flapped into the room.

“What’s the matter? Have you all been turned into pillars of salt?” she asked as she rounded the doorway. Her eyes fell on Jimmy. “Can I help?”

“I’ve come for the interview.” Jimmy sounded like he was bordering on exasperation. Thomas supposed he’d already tried to say the same thing to Anna and the others before _ he’d _ come in.

“I see,” Mrs Hughes said. “Well, if you’ll wait there.” She turned and gave several of the younger maids very pointed looks as she left the room to fetch Mr Carson.

Jimmy looked back up at Thomas. Their eyes met, and Thomas attempted a friendly smile before looking away. He hoped he wasn’t blushing, but the heat in his cheeks told him otherwise.

“I must get on. Best of luck, I hope to be working with you soon,” Thomas said, briefly meeting Jimmy’s eyes again and nodding politely. Jimmy smiled and thanked him. Thomas left the room and went outside for a smoke to calm him.

* * *

As he followed Mr Carson to his office, Jimmy took a few deep, steadying breaths. This was- this was _ definitely _ where he was supposed to be. That valet… looked almost exactly like the fairy statuette that brought him here in the first place. The only real difference was Mr Barrow’s obvious lack of wings. God, he was beautiful. He was-

Mr Carson opened a door and gestured for Jimmy to step through first. He shut the door behind him and sat down. Jimmy sat, too, in the chair on the opposite side of Mr Carson’s desk, and handed him his reference. Mr Carson unfolded it and scanned it quickly. Jimmy felt his leg jiggling, but couldn’t seem to stop it. No, he definitely needed the emotional regulation that fidgeting brought.

“I see you’ve been working for the Dowager Lady Anstruther,” Mr Carson said. Jimmy waited for him to continue, but instead Mr Carson looked at him expectantly. _ Oh _ , he realised, _ that’s a question _.

“Yes, but she’s closed up the house and gone to live in France,” he began. He wasn’t sure where it was coming from, exactly, but the bullshit was flowing freely without Jimmy having to think about it. “She begged me to go with her, but I didn’t fancy it. I didn’t think I’d like the food.” _ Build rapport with the interviewer _ , he could hear his old form tutor saying in his head, _ combine professionalism with friendliness _.

“I see,” Mr Carson said. “She begged you, did she?” Jimmy’s smile faltered.

_ Fuck, that didn’t work _. What could he say that might help?

Casual misogyny should do the trick. He vaguely remembered that the Suffragettes were still fighting then (_ now _, he reminded himself), so most blokes probably still saw women as inferior.

“Well, you know what women can be like.”

“Not, I suspect, as well as you do.”

Well, Jimmy had definitely not been expected Mr Carson to be so progressive. Or so… subtly slut-shame-y. Maybe he was wrong- maybe men were more feminist in the 1920s than he’d thought.

“Well… Your reference is impeccable, you’re more experienced than any of the other candidates, and… you’re able to start right away,” Mr Carson said. Jimmy nodded stoically. “You stayed at the Grantham Arms last night? Would you be able to fetch your things and be ready to begin working at dinner tonight?”

“Of course, Mr Carson. Thank you.” Jimmy couldn’t help but smile. He and Mr Carson stood at the same time and shook hands.

Mr Carson showed him out, and Jimmy found himself bouncing with joy a little once he was out of sight.

* * *

Jimmy hummed some MCR under his breath as he unpacked his things into his new room. It was smaller than his bedroom in the 21st century, but he had nowhere near as many things to put in it, so the difference wasn’t a bother. He put the bottle of pills in the top drawer of the bedside cabinet, along with the tangle toy. The manuscript paper and one of the Musidoku books went in the lower drawer, and the other book sat on top of the small cabinet. He’d have to find himself a pencil to keep with it later.

In the time it had taken him to pick up his things from the inn, someone had laid out a livery on his new bed. He’d already put his cap and shoes in the wardrobe, but he’d not made any move to get changed. He didn’t want to take off his jacket until he’d decided where to put Tate’s _ algiz _ necklace.

He took the tangle out of the drawer and fidgeted for a few minutes while he thought. The necklace wasn’t particularly big, but he wasn’t sure if he could get away with wearing it under his livery. Would it make a noticeable bulge? Would the colour show through his white shirt and waistcoat? Would the cord be visible around his neck?

He’d try it, he decided, and work out where to put it if he couldn’t keep it hidden. He took the necklace out of his jacket’s inside pocket and put it on. The weight against his chest was familiar and comforting already, as if he’d been wearing it for years. He took off his jacket and shirt and began to put on his new livery.

“You got the job, then?” Jimmy whipped his head round with a start. Mr Barrow was standing in his doorway. He’d been completely spaced out- he hoped he’d not just been caught _ singing _.

“I’m on my way, Mr Barrow,” he said with a grin, pulling his stiff undershirt the rest of the way on. “They say you were a footman once.”

Mr Barrow glanced away briefly and back to Jimmy again. He’d done that a few times now, in the two short conversations they’d had.

“That’s right.”

“So can I come to you if there’s anything I need to know?”

“Certainly,” Mr Barrow said through his half-smile. “Why not?” He nodded politely and walked away down the corridor.

Jimmy waited a few seconds before pushing the door shut. He slapped his cheeks a couple of times to ground himself. Damn that Mr Barrow and his cheekbones… Jimmy would have to be careful. _ Listen to your heart _ , the note had told him, but it was difficult to do that when it meant risking prison. Decriminalisation was now _ decades _ away.

Mr Barrow probably wasn’t looking at him the same way, anyway, so he decided to avoid thinking about it if he possibly could. Find a distraction and make best use of it.

Instead, Jimmy focused on making sure his hair was tidy and his livery as neat as he could manage before heading downstairs.

The _ algiz _ weighed warmly against his chest.

* * *

They’d only been working together for an hour or so, but Alfred was really starting to get on Jimmy’s nerves. When they’d been given their instructions for dinner service, Alfred had whined that _ he _ was first footman and so _ he _ should be the one to carry the meat. Jimmy honestly didn’t care which he carried, but Alfred seemed like a prick and so he took the meat just to spite him.

When Carson introduced him to the family as _ James _ he pursed his lips and bit back venom, but quickly found himself smirking again when the family mentioned his appearance. After dinner, when Carson reiterated that Jimmy was to be referred to as ‘James’ while at Downton, he found himself liking the man less and less.

Work finished for the evening, and as Jimmy sat in the servants’ hall surrounded by his new colleagues, he found himself distracted from their conversations by the piano. He’d never been able to afford a real piano, and since he’d finished school he’d only been able to play the cheap electric keyboard that sat on the floor of his and Tate’s flat. He was desperate to play.

_ Maybe tomorrow, _ he told himself. Maybe when there were fewer people around, or when he knew them better, knew they wouldn’t mock him for mistakes. He had to seem confident. He couldn’t show weakness, or they might try to break him. Fourteen years of school had taught him that.

A deck of cards slapped down on the table beside him and he looked around to see Alfred sitting back down. Jimmy had hardly noticed he’d got up in the first place.

“Want to play?” he asked.

Jimmy sighed, “Go on then.” Alfred shuffled and dealt. Jimmy realised that he probably should’ve asked what they were playing. He only knew poker.

Fortunately, poker was exactly what Alfred had intended. Jimmy won three games before Alfred seemed to tire of being beaten.

“So how’d you wind up in service?” he asked. Jimmy shrugged.

“Just sort of happened. It weren’t my plan, but I found working for Lady Anstruther suited me.” Good, the bullshit-generator that he’d found buried during his interview was still working for him. “How about you?”

“Took a place in an ‘otel when the war ended. Didn’t really enjoy it. My aunt got me an interview here,” Alfred explained. God, Jimmy was bored of this conversation already. “Miss O’Brien, her Ladyship’s lady’s maid. My mam’s sister.”

Neither of them were really bothered with their card game anymore. Jimmy shuffled the deck absent-mindedly, letting his hands move completely separate from his brain as they talked.

“I’ve not spoken to her yet. What’s she like?” Jimmy asked.

“Well, she in’t the friendliest, but she got me this job so I’m not about to say anything bad about her,” Alfred said. “Everyone here’s nice enough.” He dropped his voice to almost a whisper. “You don’t want to get on Mr Barrow’s bad side though.”

Jimmy glanced over to where Mr Barrow sat in the rocking chair with the newspaper, “Really? He seems nice.”

“He would do at first, I s’pose. No one likes him too well. He used to be close with Auntie-” Alfred paused to correct himself. “With Miss O’Brien. They had a falling out a few months back.”

Jimmy studied Mr Barrow a little closer. The chair was rocking with all the precision of a metronome. Jimmy had never used a rocking chair, but he was pretty sure they weren’t that steady and rhythmic just by themselves. Mr Barrow’s eyes were far away, like he wasn’t really reading the paper in his hands at all.

Jimmy yawned, “I think I’ll head up to bed now. You wouldn’t happen to have a pencil I can borrow?” Alfred shook his head.

“Mrs Hughes probably does, if you ask her,” he said. “Goodnight.”

Jimmy passed Alfred back his deck of cards and walked up the stairs to the men’s corridor. He’d ask for a pencil in the morning, he decided. He shut his bedroom door behind him and stripped out of his sweaty livery. It was- _ ugh _\- it was disgustingly damp, from a combination of the August heat and the pounding anxiety Jimmy had been managing to keep at bay for the past few hours. He was just pulling on his pyjama bottoms when there came a knock at the door.

“Just a minute!” he called back, hopping slightly to shake the end of the fabric over his ankle. He tugged his vest on over his head and went to open the door.

Mr Barrow was standing in his doorway.

“I heard you ask Alfred for a pencil,” he said, holding one out to him. Jimmy took it and smiled.

“Oh, thanks, Mr Barrow,” he said, stepping back away from the door slightly. “That’s really kind of you.” Mr Barrow smiled and looked away for a few moments. Had he heard Alfred’s warning? Jimmy hoped not.

“It’s no problem at all.” His eyes flickered away again. “Are you settling in?”

Jimmy nodded, “Everyone seems nice.”

“Yes.” Mr Barrow’s face didn’t quite match his response. Alfred’s words bounced around Jimmy’s head: _ no one likes him too well _ . “That’s an… interesting necklace.” Mr Barrow pointed towards the _ algiz _ rune. Jimmy rolled the rune between his fingers and smiled sadly.

“Yeah. It- it means protection,” he said. “I bought it as a gift, but I never got the chance to give it.” The four days he’d been without Tate felt much longer, all of a sudden. He felt like he might cry if he said any more on the topic. “Goodnight, Mr Barrow. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Mr Barrow smiled, “Yeah. Goodnight.” As he turned to walk down the hall, Jimmy shut the door. He sat down on the floor and leaned back against the doorframe, tears already forming in his eyes.

The last few mornings, he’d woken with the desperate hope that he’d be back at home, that this was all just a dream. He’d played the scenarios over and over in his head. There were two more likely than the others: the first being that the entire _ day _ leading up to finding the fairy statuette had been a dream, and the other being that he’d had some kind of an episode in the metaphysical shop and he would wake up any minute in the back of an ambulance or in a hospital bed.

As he sobbed into his hands, he knew that neither of his ideas were correct. He was really stuck here, in a strange century where his love was a crime and his neurology hadn’t been named yet. He squeezed the _ algiz _ rune tight in his fist, begging it to do what it was supposed to. He didn’t share Tate or Cressy’s faith in the universe or any deities, and he’d never wished more that he could.

When the tears ran dry, Jimmy dragged himself across the room and flopped across the bed. Mr Barrow’s pencil was still in his hand. He smiled slightly to himself, and the more he thought the wider the smile grew, until he was just chuckling dazedly on his own like a fool. He wasn’t sure what he was laughing at, exactly, but the thought of the kindness he’d been shown by Mr Barrow, who so closely resembled the thing that had got him into this predicament in the first place, in that moment seemed utterly hilarious.

With just the tiniest portion of the weight lifted from his heart, Jimmy dissociated his way through the first puzzle in his Musidoku book.

* * *

When Thomas heard Alfred warn Jimmy away from him, his heart sank. He’d been half-listening to all of the conversations happening in the servants’ hall, but mostly to theirs. It would’ve been a lie to say that he hadn’t been immediately captivated by Jimmy when he first met him earlier that day. He was beautiful, charismatic, lively… It was wrong to hope, Thomas knew, but he couldn’t help it.

He wanted to be close to him.

When Jimmy excused himself to bed, Thomas waited for a few minutes before going up himself. Miss O’Brien had already commented on Thomas’s responses to him. It wouldn’t do to draw attention. Jimmy had asked Alfred for a pencil, so that could be his excuse to strike up a conversation.

It barely took a moment for Thomas to find a pencil in his bedroom. He tried to keep a diary, to help him remember what he’d heard the other servants talking about. He didn’t write in it anywhere near as much as he had intended.

Thomas took a steadying breath to calm his body, and went to knock on Jimmy’s door.

The door opened, and there Jimmy stood, his hair loosened into soft waves, his toned arms bare…

“I heard you ask Alfred for a pencil,” he said. Jimmy grinned as he took it from Thomas’s hand.

“Oh, thanks, Mr Barrow. That’s really kind of you.” Thomas couldn’t help but smile at Jimmy’s openness- it’d been months since a fellow servant had been so friendly to him. He let his eyes flick away (_ so Jimmy doesn’t notice my attraction _, he told himself) for a moment, but then forced them back.

“It’s no problem at all. Are you settling in?” His eyes wouldn’t stay where he wanted them for more than a second or two.

“Everyone seems nice,” Jimmy said with a nod. Of course they did. They all wanted to make the handsome new boy like them, to create _ harmony _ between the so-called _ downstairs family _, to isolate-

“Yes.” Well, that wasn’t at all convincing. Thomas was screaming at himself on the inside. He didn’t want the conversation to end yet! “That’s an interesting necklace.” He vaguely recognised the symbol from his book of Norse mythology.

Jimmy grasped the necklace. His expression contorted into something overwhelmingly sorrowful.

“Yeah. It- it means protection. I bought it as a gift, but I never got the chance to give it,” his voice trembled. Thomas felt sick. He’d fucked up, he’d upset Jimmy, and now he was going to be alone again. He’d hardly had the chance to start trying for a friendship, and he’d already ruined it. “Goodnight, Mr Barrow. I’ll see you in the morning.” He didn’t seem angry, at least. Maybe- maybe there was a chance Jimmy _ wouldn’t _ hate him. Thomas tried an apologetic smile.

“Yeah. Goodnight.” He started down the hall towards his room, but as Jimmy’s door clicked shut Thomas heard him sob. He turned back and considered knocking on the door again. Something stopped him, though. Cowardice, he supposed. He already knew he was a coward.

The wave of sadness, of loneliness, of self-loathing, that washed over him almost swept his legs away. He walked back to his room and changed into his pyjamas. He was worthless, useless, unworthy of love, he knew. Even when he didn’t mean to, he hurt everyone around him. No one could be expected to be friends with someone so monstrous.

_ I’ll apologise in the morning _ , he promised himself. _ Not that it will do any good _.

He sighed into his pillow and drifted off into a dreamless sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been so busy this week with NaNoWriMo that I almost forgot about posting this chapter! But I managed to get it edited in time to stay on schedule.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!!

Thomas slept through until the six o’clock call. The sounds of Jimmy’s crying rang in his ears, strong enough that for a moment Thomas thought he might be crying still. He paused and listened carefully for a few moments until he felt comfortable that the sound was just a memory.

Thomas prepared himself for the day with slightly less careful precision than usual, hurrying himself through his routine. He wanted to be able to catch Jimmy on the way down to breakfast to apologise, rather than doing it in the servants’ hall where everyone else could work to degrade his words or meaning. Once he was ready, he stood by his door and listened carefully. It never took him more than a couple of days to learn the sound of someone’s footsteps, and as Jimmy was the newest member of the staff he was the only one who’s pattern Thomas didn’t know yet. All he had to do was identify when those unfamiliar steps sounded in the hallway and make his own way downstairs then.

_ There! _Thomas waited a few seconds before opening his door. Jimmy had just passed it, and turned his head. Their eyes met.

“Morning, Mr Barrow,” Jimmy said. He sounded exhausted. Had he not slept well?

“Good morning, Jimmy. How did you sleep?” Thomas asked.

Jimmy smiled slightly, “Quite well, thanks. You?” Thomas smiled back as they walked side by side.

“Better than I have in a while.” Now was his chance to apologise. “I’m sorry if I upset you last night. Were you- are you better this morning?”

“Don’t apologise. You couldn’t have known,” Jimmy said with a wave of his hand. “Crying probably did me good anyway. Got to deal with my emotions some time.” He was right, of course. Thomas knew that well, even if he didn’t act on it himself.

They entered the servants’ hall and slipped into their respective seats. Alfred greeted Jimmy cheerily and started a very one-sided conversation as Daisy hurried around the table pouring tea. She’d hardly withdrawn from Jimmy’s teacup when he picked it up and downed it in one long slug.

“D’you want more?” Daisy asked him. He grinned up at her.

“That’s lovely, thanks.” She refilled his cup, but this time he added milk and sugar and took a normal sip before setting his cup back down. She gave him a funny look as she moved onto the next cup. It was probably the most exciting thing to happen in her life for a while. Alfred had stopped talking and was staring at Jimmy with his mouth hanging open like an idiot. Jimmy smiled at him. “What were you saying?” Alfred picked up his droning where he’d left off.

Thomas felt eyes on him and glanced across to Miss O’Brien. She was smirking darkly at him. He buttered his toast and tried to ignore her, but it was difficult when he knew first-hand how clever her schemes could be. What was she planning? He’d have to keep his guard up.

* * *

Jimmy still didn’t quite feel awake when he was serving the upstairs breakfast. He’d had three cups of tea in the end, but he’d not woken at six o’clock since he finished school. Hopefully it wouldn’t take too long for his body to adjust to the sleep pattern. He’d not processed a single word Alfred said over breakfast.

The discussion at the table was quite interesting. Lady Edith’s letter had been published in a newspaper, and she and Lord Grantham found themselves disagreeing on the views she’d expressed about women’s suffrage.

When the footmen were taking everything back downstairs, Alfred piped up on the topic, “I’m not sure about giving women the vote. They’re just too emotional to make those sorts of decisions.” Jimmy rolled his eyes.

“So are men.” He set the tray down on the counter. “What do you think?” Daisy gave him an odd look.

“I don’t think I know enough to vote,” she said. “I wouldn’t even know where to start!”

“You could always learn,” he pointed out. Daisy took the empty dishes to the sink and started scrubbing.

“Don’t you go filling her head with nonsense!” Mrs Patmore reprimanded, brandishing a wooden spoon at him. “There’s no time to bother with politics when there’s plates to clean and lunches to prepare.”

Jimmy yawned widely into his hand. He could feel a caffeine-deficiency headache coming on.

“You’re not thinking of asking for more tea, are you?” Alfred asked incredulously. Jimmy scowled at him. He absolutely _ had _ been about to ask.

“No,” he spat. “Haven’t we got polishing to do now? Where do we do that?”

“Servants’ hall. The hall boys brought the stuff down while we were serving breakfast,” Alfred said. “See you later, Daisy.” He walked down the corridor to the servants’ hall, shaking his head.

“You were going to ask for more tea, weren’t you?” Daisy asked. “I’ll bring one through when I’m done with the washing up.” Jimmy smiled.

“Thanks. You’re a gem,” he said, heading for the door. “I’d best get on.”

After dissociating his way through an hour of polishing, imitating the way he’d seen Tate rub metal things so many times when she was stress-cleaning, he was snapped out of his mind by Daisy setting a cup of tea down next to him.

“Thanks,” he said as she put a second cup down, in front of Alfred.

“Thanks, Daisy,” Alfred echoed. Daisy smiled and left. “So, what d’you think?” Jimmy blinked slowly.

“What? I wasn’t listening.” He took a sip of tea and wished it was coffee. Back in the 21st century he’d be on his eighth or ninth cup by this time. Now that he was fully back in his mind, and drinking only his fourth cup of the day, he could feel the deprivation headache in full force.

“Are you really that self-absorbed?” Alfred asked. He was clearly upset, which seemed a bit ridiculous. If you talk at someone for an hour and they don’t respond once, surely you realise that you’re actually just talking to yourself?

Jimmy pinched the bridge of his nose, “I have a fucking headache and your stupid voice is making it worse.” Oops. He hadn’t meant to snap _ quite _ that much, but at least Alfred would finally understand that Jimmy didn’t want to talk to him.

“Language, James!” Mrs Hughes reprimanded gently as she stepped into the room. “Do you need to take a powder for your head? I’ll fetch you one now.” She patted his shoulder and disappeared. God, she was so wonderfully maternal. He’d only known her for a day but he felt it had been much longer. In her eyes he could see all the English teachers and school nurses that had been so patient with his bullshit over the years.

Jimmy took another sip of tea and tried to ignore Alfred’s muttering. He got back to work, less delicate and more angry than before. He was probably doing a shoddy job, but he didn’t really care.

“You want to make your strokes a bit more circular than that.” Jimmy looked up, scowling, and saw Mr Barrow flopping down into the rocking chair. Mr Barrow blinked a few times, his smile faltering. “Blimey, Jimmy, you alright?”

“He’s got a _ headache _, apparently” Alfred interjected bitterly. Mr Barrow moved to stand back up.

“Have you taken anything for it? Shall I get you a powder?” he asked. Jimmy shook his head.

“Mrs Hughes is getting me one already.” He altered the way he rubbed the silver, heeding Mr Barrow’s advice. He was regretting mentioning his headache.

A few beats later, Mrs Hughes came back in and placed a small glass of slightly cloudy water next to Jimmy. He put down his cloth and chugged it, grimacing at the foul taste.

“Thanks,” he said. He took a few sips of tea to get rid of the aftertaste. Hopefully the two would work together and the pounding would ease off enough for him to resist punching Alfred. That’d be a surefire way to get sacked. He picked his cloth up and polished. He noticed that it really did come cleaner, faster with circles than with straight rubbing.

“You’re welcome,” Mrs Hughes said. “Next time, have a powder _ before _ you snap at someone.” Mr Barrow looked between Jimmy and Alfred, saw the bitterness in Alfred’s expression and smirked.

By lunchtime, the pounding had receded to a light throb.

* * *

Thomas’s peaceful after dinner smoke break was interrupted when the door burst open and immediately slammed shut, startling him so much that he almost dropped his cigarette. Jimmy’s face was flushed and he looked like he could burst into a flurry of tears or a fit of rage at any moment. His breathing was uneven and slightly laboured. His hand was at his throat, loosening his tie with trembling fingers. Thomas dipped his hand into his pocket and wordlessly offered him a cigarette. He took it with a forced half-smile.

After a few minutes of silent smoking, Jimmy let out a shaky breath and spoke, “Almost fucking punched him.” Thomas knew the feeling. He was pretty sure he knew exactly who Jimmy was talking about, too.

“How’s your head?” he asked. Jimmy grimaced.

“‘S getting worse again. I normally drink more tea and coffee than I have today,” he said. “I think that’s what’s caused it.”

“Bloody hell, how much d’you have usually?” Thomas asked with an incredulous laugh. “You must’ve had at least ten cups today.”

Jimmy smiled, “I’ve usually had ten cups by lunchtime. Helps me concentrate.”

“Fair enough.” Thomas stamped out the smouldering tip of his cigarette and lit another. “I’ve got an errand to run in the village tomorrow morning. I’ll pick up some of whatever’s cheap. Mrs Patmore might start objecting if you’re having twenty cups a day from the staff supplies.” A little bit of light came back to Jimmy’s eyes, then, and Thomas found his own eyes flicking away even more than usual.

“You’re too kind, Mr Barrow,” he said. “I’ll give you the money in the morning.” Thomas waved him off.

“‘S okay. All I ever spend mine on is cigarettes anyway.” He rubbed the seam of his glove. “Don’t worry about giving the pencil back, either.”

Jimmy opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off by the door opening. He and Thomas both looked around to glare at Alfred.

“His Lordship’s ringing for you, Mr Barrow.” Thomas took one last drag from his cigarette before stamping it out. He held the smoke in for as long as he could- he wanted to savour it, and make his time with Jimmy last even just a few seconds longer.

“Thank you, Alfred,” he said sharply. He gave Jimmy a dry look, which was returned with an eye roll, before strolling back inside.

Thomas took the stairs at a light jog and slowed down once he was out in the upstairs corridor. He rubbed the seam of his glove as he walked, worrying as he went about whether Alfred would start bugging Jimmy again. He knocked on the door of Lord Grantham’s dressing room and waited for the response before entering.

As Thomas helped his Lordship off with his dinner jacket, his Lordship asked, “How’s the new footman getting on with everyone downstairs?” Thomas thought for a moment. How could he show Jimmy in the best possible light without risking Lord Grantham recognising his attraction and growing infatuation?

“Very well, milord. He’s friendly and a hard worker.” He unfolded the nightshirt and helped Lord Grantham into it. “Alfred’s a little jealous of the attention the maids are trying to give him, but it will soon pass.”

“Yes, I suppose it’s understandable. I am glad he’s getting on.” He paused. “I don’t suppose you’ve spoken with Lady Sybil at all, have you?”

Thomas wasn’t sure what sort of answer was expected of him, “I… have spoken with her, milord.” Lord Grantham was silent for a moment, thinking.

“Has she… confided in you at all? I know she considers you a friend.” Thomas felt a swell of pride in his chest, knowing that Sybil cared for him enough for her father to know of their friendship.

“No, your Lordship. She has not.”

“Okay… Well, if she does tell you anything… odd, please pass it on to me.”

“Of course, milord,” Thomas lied with a practiced, formal smile. If Sybil _ confided _ in him, he would most certainly _ not _ betray her trust by snitching to her father. He finished folding Lord Grantham’s clothes. “Will that be all?”

Lord Grantham waved him away, “Yes, thank you, Barrow. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, milord.” He scooped up the worn clothes and left the dressing room, heading in the direction of the laundry.


	5. Chapter 5

When Jimmy and Alfred took the trays back down to the kitchen after breakfast service, the new kitchen maid seemed to really notice Jimmy for the first time. She looked at him with the same eyes that he’d seen on straight girls at ComicCon, queueing to meet attractive actors. Oh, yes, he liked being looked at like this by a pretty girl. He handed her the dirty cutlery to take to the sink and she almost gasped as their hands touched.

“Thank you,” she sighed with a dreamy smile. “I- I’m Ivy Stuart.”

“Jimmy Kent.” He flashed her a grin and winked. Alfred was frowning. Oh, goody. He could get a cute girlfriend, hide his bisexuality _ and _ annoy the absolute shit out of Alfred all at once! He doubted that wooing Ivy would take much effort, but it should be enough to distract him from Mr Barrow’s glorious jawline. Enough to keep him out of _ illegal _ trouble, at the very least.

“Stop dallying and get back to work, Ivy. Those forks won’t clean themselves!” Daisy snapped. It startled Jimmy slightly, but he managed not to show it. Ivy grimaced and did as she was told. Jimmy frowned slightly at Daisy. She’d been so sweet and gentle with him that the tone she’d just taken didn’t seem like her at all. _ Well, I’ve only known her a day _ , he told himself, _ maybe something’s bothering her _. He glanced across at Alfred. God, he was staring at Ivy’s back like an idiot, watching her clean forks as if it was something incredible.

“We should probably get on, too,” Jimmy said. For good measure, he added, “See you later, Ivy.”

Ivy looked over her shoulder at him, cheeks flushed pink, “Yeah, see you later Jimmy!” She sounded more excited than was really reasonable.

Jimmy smirked at Alfred as he left the kitchen. Alfred scowled and followed behind, muttering his goodbyes to the girls.

“D’you have to bloody do that?” he asked Jimmy as they walked into the servants’ hall.

“Do what?” Jimmy asked innocently, picking up an ornate silver candle holder to polish.

* * *

“Thomas!” He was just on his way back downstairs when he heard Lady Sybil call out to him. He turned and smiled at her as she walked (waddled, really, he thought, though quickly told himself off for thinking unkindly of his dear friend) down the hall towards him.

“Milady,” he said with a curt nod, though the smile tugging at his lips betrayed his professionalism. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yes! We need to catch up,” she said. “And I’m spending half my time sleeping and the fatigue hits at the most inconvenient times, so we can’t _ plan _ for a conversation. You’re not too busy now, are you?” How could he possibly resist that kind face?

“I’m sure I can manage to take a break for a few minutes,” he said. “I’ve missed you. Seeing you again, I felt like a prayer had been answered.” Oh, he hadn’t meant to say quite that much.

“I’ve missed you too! Ever so much,” she said. “How have you been? And don’t even think about lying to me.” Damn, he’d been about to do just that.

“It’s been lonely, but I’m okay,” he said. “In fact, I’m getting on quite well with the new footman. He’s only been here a few days, so he’s just settling in. What’s Ireland like?” Sybil’s face lit up and her eyes glazed slightly as she thought of what to say.

“It’s beautiful. So beautiful. You must visit it one day,” she said. “If Tom and I make it back there one day, I’ll insist on you coming to stay with us.”

“I’m not sure he likes me enough to agree to that,” Thomas replied. “But okay.” Sybil rolled her eyes, just like she always did when he mentioned other people’s opinions of him.

“How many _ times _, Thomas? I don’t believe anyone hates you as much as you seem to think they do.” She looked over his shoulder and almost frowned. “Tom certainly doesn’t hate you. You’re just ‘a bit of a bastard sometimes’. His words.” She smiled brightly over his shoulder. “Hello, Carson!” Thomas almost visibly startled.

“Milady.” Carson nodded to her. “Mr Barrow, are you quite certain you have nothing to be doing right now?”

“Oh, don’t blame him,” Sybil interjected before Thomas had a chance to speak. “I insisted he talk to me.” Carson sighed.

“Well, if it’s nothing too vital, I would suggest that you continue your conversation later. Mr Barrow has work to do.”

“Of course. I’ll come and find you later, Tho-” She paused and corrected herself. “Mr Barrow. I’m going to go for a lie down.”

“Absolutely, milady,” Thomas said with a professional dip of his head. He and Sybil shared a small smile before parting ways. As he walked back downstairs, Thomas found himself silently thanking whichever god had heard his prayer.

* * *

After both dinners were finished, Thomas dropped into his preferred rocking chair with his book of myths in his hand. Jimmy was already sitting in the other, focusing hard on his own book. A puzzle of sort sort, it seemed, because Jimmy’s blue eyes scanned back and forth across the page, darting to all edges, and the end of his pencil- the pencil Thomas had given him- rested against his plump lower lip. He was muttering ever so softly, halfway between thinking and speaking, and every now and then he drew the pencil from his mouth and scribbled something brief. He was utterly captivating, and it almost hurt Thomas to look away.

Others would notice him staring, though, if he didn’t stop soon. He opened his book to the point he’d marked and sighed into its pages. The piece of poetry he’d been too tired to read last night was a translation, but it seemed that whoever had translated it into English had wanted to take the joy out of reading it. It may as well have been a piece of prose spread across an unnecessarily large number of lines for all the rhythm it had. He almost wanted to slap the man responsible.

A chair shrieked across the floor. Thomas grimaced and clenched his fist, looking up to glare at Alfred.

“Can you not just feckin’ carry it?” Jimmy spat as Alfred sat down beside him. Thomas unclenched his fist and realised that he’d ripped right down the middle of the page he was turning. Prick.

“Sorry,” Alfred said, not sounding sorry at all. “What’s that?” Jimmy half closed his book, keeping his place with his finger, and held it up for Alfred to read the cover. “Musid- what?”

“Musidoku,” Jimmy sighed, reopening the book. “If you don’t mind, I’m trying to concentrate.”

“What’s it about?” Alfred pressed. Was he really that desperate for a conversation? Jimmy looked up at Alfred disdainfully.

Thomas interjected, “Y’know, Alfred, usually when someone’s trying to concentrate on something, they don’t want to have a chat at the same time.” Jimmy smiled slightly at him.

“It’s probably a bit beyond you anyway,” he added, and turned his eyes back down to the book.

“Might not be,” Alfred pushed back. “What’s it about? It don’t look very long.”

“Do you know music notation, Alfred?” Jimmy asked. Alfred shook his head. “Then it’s beyond you, see?” He held up the open book so that Thomas and Alfred could both see the puzzles. It was some kind of grid, with an assortment of symbols Thomas vaguely recognised but mostly couldn’t identify in some of the squares. Some were printed, and others had been penciled in.

“Definitely beyond _ me _. There’s some crotchets and a… treble clef, I think, but that’s about it for me,” Thomas said. “You must be right clever, Jimmy.” Alfred looked between the two of them, utterly beaten.

“Can’t you do it later?” he asked. Jimmy scowled and muttered something that sounded a bit like _ I’ll bloody do you later _. He tried to get back to his puzzle and Thomas went back to his reading. Alfred just sat there, silently, looking like he might start talking again at any moment.

It was less than two minutes before he cracked.

“What’re _ you _ reading, Mr Barrow?” Alfred asked. Thomas almost bloody hit him.

“The Poetic Edda,” he said as politely as he could manage. “Again, probably a bit beyond you.” It came out a little more snide than he’d intended. Well, not really, but he could pretend he’d meant it nicely. Jimmy snorted.

Without looking up, he recited, “_ How fare the gods now? How fare the elves? _  
_ “All Jötunheim shall roar; _  
_ “Cliff-dwarfs groan by their doors of stone- _ _  
_“Do you seek to know yet more?” Thomas blinked slowly at him. Alfred looked confused.

“What are you on about, Jimmy?” Alfred asked. Thomas didn’t recognise the _ words _, but he knew the meaning. It was clearly enough a different translation of the very poem he was reading.

“Blimey, you _ are _ clever,” Thomas said. “You know it from memory?” Alfred looked back and forth between them, possibly even _ more _ confused than before. Jimmy smiled and touched his chest briefly.

“Some of it,” he said. “My cousin was a reconstructionist; _ she _ knew both the Poetic and Prose inside out. Could quote them the way a priest quotes the Bible.” His smile turned sad. Thomas wondered if he was wearing his necklace under his livery, if that’s what he’d pressed his fingertips to. He seemed to do that a lot. Thomas supposed Jimmy’s cousin was the one it had been intended as a gift for.

“What’s a reconstructionist, then?” Alfred asked. Thomas closed his eyes for a moment. He’d never been good at reading people’s emotions, but it was obvious even to _ him _ that Jimmy’d upset himself with the topic. With every passing day, Alfred proved himself to be a total imbecile in yet another way.

“It’s-” Jimmy frowned and closed his book. “I need a smoke.” He all but threw himself from the chair and hurried outside.

“Well done, Alfred.” Thomas shook his head and followed Jimmy out.

It was raining, but Jimmy was sitting out on the bench. Miss O’Brien was outside, too, sheltered from the rain just by the door as she smoked. Thomas ignored her as he strode across the courtyard to Jimmy. The blond was struggling to light up, what with the rain and the wind irritating his lighter.

“Here, let me,” Thomas said, sheltering the cigarette with his hand and taking his own lighter to it. It sparked to life and he lit his own.

“Thanks.” Jimmy took a long, deep drag. After a minute or so, he said, “I’d rather not-”

“It’s none of my business,” Thomas cut him off. “Just wanted to check you were alright.” Jimmy flashed a half smile.

“Yeah. I’m just overreacting. Touchy subject and all,” he said. “It’s my own fault anyway, thought the last line of that stanza was fitting for Alfred’s endless fucking questions.” Thomas chuckled.

“I didn’t actually notice that,” he said. “But it’s dead clever of you, now that I think about it.” He stubbed out his cigarette and lit up another.

Jimmy snorted, “I knew Alfred wouldn’t understand, but I thought I’d misjudged how funny it was when you didn’t laugh.” He suddenly looked more thoughtful than Thomas had seen him yet. “Most things sound better in my head.” He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. “I think I’ll head to bed now. Alfred gets on my damn nerves.”

“Goodnight.” Thomas smiled at him as he walked away.

Oh, god. Miss O’Brien was looking right at him. Thomas sighed as the door closed behind Jimmy. Might as well get this over with.

Thomas walked across the courtyard and stepped into his favourite smoking position, just out of the rain.

“What was that all about?” she asked him.

“Never you mind,” Thomas said defensively. The last thing he needed was another damn argument with her about her stupid nephew.

“Well, I’d say having you out here did the lad some good,” she said. “He looked about to cry when he first came out, but you sorted him out. Even smiled and said goodnight as he came past.” She let out a long, slow stream of smoke. “He likes you.” Thomas snorted.

“Not a chance,” he almost spat. He wouldn’t let himself be manipulated by her.

“Don’t be a fool, anyone can see he thinks highly of you,” she said. “Just watch, tomorrow morning. See how he is with you compared to everyone else. He likes you.” She took one final drag before she stamped out her cigarette and went inside, leaving Thomas alone with his thoughts.


	6. Chapter 6

A week after Jimmy started working as a footman, when he was feeling much more caffeinated and content, it was announced that Lady Sybil had gone into labour. She was all but a stranger to Jimmy and he’d not expected himself to really care, but the news somehow made him almost giddy with excitement. Perhaps it was something to do with the way Mr Barrow’s eyes had lit up, utterly betraying his carefully maintained neutral expression, in a way that Jimmy had yet to see.

The coming baby was the topic of conversation around the breakfast table that morning.

“I think I’d rather be in a city if I were having a baby,” said Ivy. “Where they’ve got all the modern inventions.”

“Far away from everyone you know and trust? I don’t think I would,” Anna rebutted, though Jimmy was inclined to agree with Ivy on this. The tools they had in even the most advanced hospitals seemed almost terrifyingly rudimentary compared to what Jimmy was used to back in the 21st century.

“What are you talking about having babies for, Ivy?” Mrs Patmore reprimanded. “I think we can leave that for a little further down the menu, thank you.” Jimmy snorted slightly and almost choked on his tea.

“It’s always an idea to be prepared,” he said lightly.

“I expect you’re always prepared,” Mr Barrow teased. Jimmy smiled. He could feel his pulse quickening.

“I try to be, Mr Barrow.” Their eyes met for a moment. Mr Barrow smiled slightly, almost invisibly.

Mr Carson interrupted before they had a chance to further the banter, “I don’t like the direction this conversation is taking.” He frowned at Jimmy in particular. “Could we all begin today’s tasks, please?” As everyone rose from their seats, Mr Carson firmly reminded them to be quiet upstairs.

Jimmy downed the last bit of his tea (his fifth cup of the day- he’d started taking a teapot up to bed to drink at room temperature when he first woke). Mr Carson approached him.

“James, I want you to wind the clocks this morning, after the upstairs breakfast,” he said. “Can you do that?” Jimmy nodded.

“Yes, Mr Carson.” Well, he was fucked. Not only did he not know which clocks needed winding, he had absolutely no idea _ how _ to wind a clock. He was born in 1998! Wind-up clocks were a novelty to him! The only time he’d even _ seen _ one was when he’d tagged along with Tate to an otherwise sapphics-only picnic three days after his last boyfriend had dumped him.

The baby-buzz was still throbbing through Jimmy and Alfred all through upstairs breakfast. The anticipation in the air was almost overwhelming, and throughout the whole hour they were upstairs neither boy gave the other a single dirty look.

After breakfast was over, Jimmy went to find Mr Barrow at Miss O’Brien’s recommendation. It was the first time he’d really spoken to her, and he understood what Alfred had meant on that first night when he’d told him that she ‘wasn’t the friendliest’. She wasn’t unfriendly, exactly, nor cold, but she seemed introverted, maybe even shy. She was a bit similar to Mr Barrow in that respect- they both kept mostly to themselves, not really interacting with anyone unless they had to. Jimmy wasn’t exactly sure if Mr Barrow _ liked _ him as Miss O’Brien had said, but he knew that quiet people tended to be observant, and Mr Barrow _ had _ helped silently and without judgement when Jimmy had tried to pass an anxiety attack off as anger.

Jimmy opened the courtyard door and looked out. There he was! Sitting on the bench, smoking.

“Mr Barrow,” Jimmy called out as he approached. Mr Barrow turned his head and gave that lovely soft smile. “I was wondering if you could help me with something when you’ve got a minute.”

“Of course.” The smile grew for a moment as he glanced away. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, exactly…” Jimmy trailed off awkwardly. He _ hated _ asking for help. He didn’t want to look a fool in front of someone so brilliant. “Mr Carson’s asked me to wind the clocks, but I… don’t know how. Miss O’Brien said you were the one to ask.” Mr Barrow smiled again. “Don’t rush, though, finish your smoke first.”

“It’s alright, it’s my fourth in a row,” he said, stubbing it out and standing up. He took the lead as they reentered the building and headed upstairs, and Jimmy stuck close behind. “How’ve you been getting on with Alfred?”

“Ugh. He’s alright, for a moron,” Jimmy said. Mr Barrow chuckled. “He gets so annoyed if I lose focus when he’s talking. I can’t listen to him and work at the same time. He’s too boring, paying attention takes all my energy.”

“I know exactly what you mean-” Mr Barrow gestured to the clock next to the main staircase, where they stopped. “Here we are. Open up the front, I’ll guide you through it.”

Jimmy eased open the glass window that protected the clock’s face and mechanism. Mr Barrow pointed to a small hole in the clock’s face.

“That there’s your winding point. Hook the crank into it.” Jimmy did as he was told. “Now turn it slowly and gently.” Mr Barrow placed his hand on top of Jimmy’s and guided it gently. His skin was warm and surprisingly soft. His breath was hot against Jimmy’s neck and- oh, God. Jimmy felt his blood surging. He was hot all over, and he thought for sure that his cheeks must be bright red.

Their hands moved together, slow and gentle, until the feeling of the crank changed ever so slightly beneath them.

“There,” Mr Barrow murmured. “Do you feel a slight increase in the resistance?”

“I think so.” Maybe if he seemed unsure, Mr Barrow would help him with the next clock in the same way. It had been so long since he’d been this close with someone. He wanted to savour it.

“That’s what you’re watching for,” Mr Barrow said, bringing his gloved hand up to rest on Jimmy’s shoulder. Oh, that was absolutely blissful. “Never go past the point where the clock is comfortable.”

“You make it sound like a living thing,” Jimmy said, almost laughing.

“Ah, clocks are living things. My dad was a clockmaker,” Mr Barrow said. Jimmy turned his head to look at him as he spoke. He wanted to watch the shapes his lips made. “I grew up with clocks. I understand them.” His voice was filled with something strange. Was it longing? Jimmy couldn’t meet his eyes. He turned his face back to the clock. It almost looked different to him now, as Mr Barrow’s words washed through his body, nourishing his soul like the first sip of water on a dry morning. “Never wind them in the early morning before a room has warmed up, nor too late when the night air cools them down. Find a time when-” he paused- “the family’s out of the room.”

Mr Barrow suddenly sprang back, dropping his hands. Jimmy stiffened as his mind processed the sound of a door opening. Mr Barrow stepped to Jimmy’s side and closed the clock’s cover. He gave Jimmy a small smile, but it didn’t look quite like the smiles they’d shared before.

“Do you think you can manage the rest yourself?” he asked. Jimmy nodded and forced a smile.

“Yeah. Thank you, Mr Barrow.”

“I’d best get on, then,” Mr Barrow said. “I’ll see you later.”

Jimmy enjoyed winding the rest of the clocks far more than he’d expected to, the ghost of casual intimacy still caressing him.

* * *

Dinner was postponed, and so Jimmy found himself sitting in the servants’ hall in the chair beside Mr Barrow, the pair of them utterly silent. There were several quiet conversations buzzing around the room, but Jimmy found that with his anxiety rising with every passing second, he didn’t trust himself to join in. He shuffled a deck of cards rhythmically, trying to focus on the way they felt in his hands and the soft sounds they made as they rubbed against each other and dropped against his fingers. His heart was pounding and his stomach was rolling. Telling himself not to fret so much over a woman who was essentially a stranger was useless, because worrying was what he did best.

“Show us a card trick, Jimmy.” Mr Barrow’s voice snapped him back to reality. His mind was still slightly numb, he couldn’t quite recall any tricks. Fortunately, he didn’t have to.

Mr Carson walked into the servants’ hall, “That’s it. The baby is born.” He was smiling more than Jimmy knew he could. Everyone rushed to their feet. “It’s a girl. Now you can all go to bed.” The tension that had been lingering in the air dropped in a rush and was replaced with a heady buzz of relief and excitement.

“Good news,” Mr Barrow said, taking a cheerful puff of his cigarette.

“Do you like Lady Sybil?” Jimmy asked. He felt something unidentifiable stirring in his chest.

“I do. We worked together in the hospital during the war,” Mr Barrow said with a bright smile. “So I know her better than all of them really. She’s a lovely person.” He reached out and gave Jimmy’s arm a small squeeze. “Like you.” He turned and walked out.

Jimmy found himself utterly frozen to the spot. He felt conflicted. As much as he’d adored the way Mr Barrow had guided him through the clock winding earlier, that arm squeeze did nothing more than make his skin burn and his stomach turn.

“Anything the matter?” Jimmy looked up. Miss O’Brien walked across the room to him.

“No.” He shook his head. He could feel himself frowning. “No, but Mr Barrow’s so familiar all the time, isn’t he?”

“I’m glad to hear it. That’s a very good sign,” she said kindly. “If he’s taken to you, he’ll definitely put in a good word with his Lordship.” Jimmy grimaced slightly.

“‘Cause I’d like to tell him to keep his distance.” He regretted the words before they’d even finished leaving his mouth. He felt sick. Miss O’Brien seemed nice, but what if…

“Do you want your marching orders, then?” she asked. He didn’t even want to think about it. “Why, what are you implying? Nothing unseemly, I hope.” His heart pounded painfully.

“No,” he said. He could hope, but he couldn’t risk outing himself and he didn’t want to get anyone else into trouble either. “No, nothing like that.” He smiled weakly. “Goodnight.” If he tried to say another word, he would cry or throw up or both.

Jimmy rushed up the stairs, biting down hard on his thumb. He shoved past Alfred in the attic corridor and ran into his room, barely managing to shut the door behind him before he burst into tears. He sprawled fully clothed across the bed and slowly rummaged through the top drawer for the pill bottle. He fumbled with the cap and strained to keep his hands steady enough to avoid spilling the pills all over the floor. He sat up to dry-swallow a dose and shoved the bottle back into the drawer. There was no point in trying to calm himself with Musidoku- he could hardly see through his tears, let alone read anything. He reopened the drawer and pulled out the tangle toy. Tucked his feet up underneath him on the duvet, shoes still on, and pressed his forehead to his knees. He twisted and tugged the tangle as he tried to steady his breathing. He hoped the meds would kick in quickly and let him avoid his emotions by sleeping.

There was a knock at the door.

Alfred’s voice, then, “Jimmy, you alright?” He was crying too hard to get out an answer. “Right, I’m coming in.” The door hinge creaked open and then shut again. The mattress shifted as Alfred sat down and awkwardly patted Jimmy’s back. Jimmy desperately wanted to tell him to fuck off, that the humiliation of being comforted by his rival was making him feel _ worse _.

Alfred seemed to be having a coherent thought for once, then, because Jimmy felt a hand against his forehead. Fuck, he _ wished _ it was just a fever and not his brain being a piece of shit. He found himself inexplicably leaning into the touch. Alfred kept his hand perfectly still.

“You’re alright,” Alfred said, so softly that it almost didn’t sound like him. Ah, finally, there was the inevitable drowsiness that came with Jimmy’s anxiety pills. Still crying and trembling, he flopped sideways to lean against Alfred. Alfred wrapped his arm around Jimmy’s back and rubbed his arm. The tears were slowing and his breathing was evening out. “Are you falling asleep? You should change into your pyjamas.”

“I- I can’t. Too tired…” Jimmy whispered. He touched his throat. His voice was slightly sore from crying so fiercely.

“You’ll damage your livery if you sleep in it,” Alfred said more forcefully. “C’mon, I’ll help you.” He started working at the buttons on Jimmy’s jacket, waistcoat and shirt so that he was able to simply shrug out of them.

Jimmy was half asleep by now. He took off his trousers and barely registered how Alfred quickly busied himself with hanging Jimmy’s livery in the wardrobe. When he was done changing, he crumpled across the bed and wrapped his fingers around his necklace.

“At least get under the cover, Jimmy,” Alfred said, but there was no bite to it. He draped the duvet over Jimmy with a sigh. “What got you so upset, then? Are you feeling ill? I don’t think you have a temperature.” He pressed his hand to Jimmy’s forehead again, just to be sure.

“Just tired,” Jimmy murmured. His eyes were closed and he was just on the edge of sleep. He didn’t quite realise that he was speaking out loud. “And I worry too much. ‘S overwhelming.”

“Are you alright for me to leave you?” Alfred asked. Jimmy just nodded. “Right, then. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Jimmy was asleep before Alfred was out of the room.

* * *

Jimmy did not feel rested when he woke.

It was still utterly dark, but he was too tired and hazy to register that the lack of sunlight meant that something had happened, important enough for the servants to be woken.

“C’mon, Jimmy, get your housecoat on. Mr Carson’s called everyone downstairs.” Mr Barrow was much more abrasive than Jimmy was used to in the middle of the night. Jimmy stumbled out of bed and sluggishly pulled his housecoat on when Mr Barrow handed it to him.

“What’s happening?” he asked. Mr Barrow gave a brief, nervous half-smile.

“I don’t know.”

Jimmy followed him downstairs. The rest of the men seemed to be on the stairs, too, though they were all coping better with being woken than Jimmy was. In the end, he was being half led by Alfred, who gave him a weird look but didn’t say anything about his pre-sleep anxiety attack.

They all filed neatly into the servants’ hall. Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes were standing alongside the head of the table. Everyone stared at them expectantly.

“I regret to have to inform you all of this,” Mr Carson began, all traces of his earlier happiness gone. “But… Lady Sybil has passed away from complications relating to the birth.” Had the room not already been silent, a shocked silence would’ve fallen. The air suddenly felt very heavy and Jimmy felt that he was trying to breathe in treacle.

“Is there anything we should do, Mr Carson?” Daisy asked. Her voice sounded strained, like she was breathing in treacle too.

Mr Carson paused before answering, “Carry on, Daisy. As we all must.” He turned and left.

After a few seconds, Mr Barrow all but ran from the room, and after sharing a look with Mrs Hughes, Anna followed him. Jimmy could hear him sobbing in the corridor. He found tears rolling down his own cheeks, too. Mrs Hughes pulled Daisy into a hug and Jimmy wished desperately that someone would hug _ him _, even though his grief was nothing compared to everyone else. He’d only known Lady Sybil for a week, and they’d only spoken twice.

Mrs Hughes left the room, too, and everyone else started to shift. Mr Barrow walked past the door and towards the courtyard with his fist balled against his mouth and his eyes almost hidden behind his hair and his tears.

“I need a smoke,” Jimmy muttered to Alfred and walked out after him.

As he walked across to the bench Mr Barrow was sobbing on, Jimmy dug his hand into the pocket of his housecoat and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and some matches. He wordlessly held a cigarette out to Mr Barrow. He took it and let Jimmy light it for him.

They sat side by side and chainsmoked in an uneasy silence that was only broken by Mr Barrow’s occasional sobs until Jimmy’s cigarette packet was empty and the sun was beginning to rise in the distance.

“We should probably try to get a little sleep,” Jimmy said. “We’ve still got an hour or so before the wake-up call.” Mr Barrow nodded wordlessly and followed when Jimmy walked back inside. They walked upstairs side by side until they bumped into Daisy on the stairs.

“I’ll make sure whichever hallboy’s on wake-up this morning lets you two sleep in a bit,” she said softly, offering them each a quick hug. “And I promise, Mr Barrow, I’ll tell no one I saw you showing your emotions.” She smoothed her apron and hurried back off down the stairs.

When Jimmy got back into his room, he knew there was very little chance of falling asleep before the wake-up, so he got out his Musidoku book and Mr Barrow’s pencil and tried to wake his brain back up before his work day began.


	7. Chapter 7

Breakfast was strikingly different, _painfully_ different from yesterday’s. No one said more than ‘thank you’ or ‘pass the butter’. The air felt heavy. Everyone looked exhausted. Jimmy hadn’t gone back to sleep, so even though the hallboy hadn’t knocked on his door (at Daisy’s kind request), he was up with everyone else.

Well, almost everyone else.

Neither Mr Barrow nor Anna were present at breakfast. Anna was attending to Lady Mary and Lady Edith already, finding that the easiest way to deal with her grief was to help others with theirs. Jimmy admired her strength.

Mr Barrow had been allowed to sleep in. At first, Mr Carson had complained (no one else was being allowed to ‘skive off’, after all), but once Jimmy and Daisy stepped out of the room to explain that he’d cried until 5am, Mr Carson had relented.

“You should be sleeping in, too, Jimmy. You sat up with him all night,” Daisy had said. Mr Carson had raised an eyebrow at that, but praised him for his kindness, all the same.

When downstairs breakfast ended, in the few minutes before they had to serve upstairs breakfast, Alfred pulled Jimmy aside.

“You alright?” Alfred asked. “You look awful.” Jimmy sighed and looked away.

“Couldn’t bloody get back to sleep,” he said. “I’ll be fine. I’ve no right to be sad, I didn’t know her.” Alfred frowned.

“She only got back from Ireland the day you started working here. We both knew her the same amount,” he said. “And you were already upset.”

Jimmy scowled, “_ Don’t _ fucking mention that again. I’m grateful you helped me and all, but I really don’t want to talk about it.” Alfred looked like he was trying very hard to think of something to say, but Mr Carson interrupted.

“We’ll have less dallying, thank you very much!” Jimmy and Alfred strode through to the kitchen to pick up their trays and went up to serve in silence.

The family ate in the same solemn silence as the servants. None of them had much of an appetite, and while Jimmy would usually have been glad of the lower workload it brought, he found now that the longer he went without refilling a cup or holding out a tray, the harder it was for him to maintain composure. He was drained both physically and emotionally from his night in the courtyard and the heavy fog of grief over the house.

He made it halfway down the stairs with a trayful of dirty dishes before he cried. Two small sobs and a flurry of tears that fell for about ten seconds. He blinked hard through the tears and kept walking. Alfred thankfully said nothing.

When he reached the kitchen, Mrs Patmore took one look at him and sighed heavily.

“Daisy tells me you’re too kind and foolish for your own good,” she said, taking the tray and giving him a cup of tea. “Here you go. Don’t fret, Alfred, there’s a cup for you too.” Jimmy and Alfred thanked her in unison as they sat down at the little two-seat table by the wall.

“So… Kind _ and _ foolish?” Alfred asked. Jimmy rolled his eyes. “Thought you were s’posed to be all bitter and clever.”

“What are you on about now?” Jimmy asked. He knew the answer already.

“Jimmy sat up with Mr Barrow until sunrise comforting him,” Ivy said proudly, as if it was her own accomplishment. Jimmy drank his tea in silence and ignored the look Alfred was giving him, halfway between incredulous and exasperated.

“Shut up, Ivy,” Jimmy spat. Alfred was boring and annoying enough when he was talking about positive things. Jimmy did not fancy getting lectured by him, but he knew it was coming- he could see it all forming behind his eyes.

Mrs Patmore tutted, “I can see you’ll get along well with Mr Barrow. He won’t let people catch him being nice either.”

“He’s been nothing but good to me,” Jimmy rebutted. Mrs Patmore snorted.

“I wonder why.” Her voice was pure sarcasm. Jimmy downed the rest of his tea, torn between hoping he was right and hoping he was wrong about what she was implying.

“I’d best get on,” he said, standing to leave. Alfred joined him, still frowning.

* * *

When Thomas woke up, _ really _ woke up, with no chance of drifting back off, after several hours of hazily falling between sleep and wake, he felt strangely numb. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to feel, really, but the emptiness that followed his tears was what made him realise that he’d never really mourned a friend before. Acquaintances and companions, yes. Even the what-might-have-beens he would never stop yearning for. But never a friend whose feelings truly and certainly mirrored his own. He’d only come close to this grief once before, but the young woman who’d helped him through it was no longer here to guide him. She was- she was the one he was grieving for this time.

Fuck, he needed a smoke.

He tried to push himself upright but it seemed all of the strength had gone from his body. He let himself crash back down onto the pillow. He could reach the smokes and lighter from where he lay anyway.

He lit up and took a long, deep drag. He could feel his faith slipping away again. He’d prayed, he’d _ prayed _ , for the first time in years, and Sybil had come home from Ireland just days later. He’d thought then that maybe there was a god after all. He’d started to feel better, to feel that maybe things would change if he prayed more. But now… he was alone again. The truest friend he’d ever had was… gone, it seemed. Some part of his mind said it couldn’t be true. It _ had _ to be a mistake. Less than 48 hours ago, she’d come down to the servants’ hall and they’d smiled and laughed together. There’d seemed nothing wrong, nothing at all. He didn’t understand what could’ve changed so quickly. He’d known women to die in childbirth before - his sister’s best friend had lost both her mother and stepmother that way - but they’d always seen complications _ earlier _.

That small part of his brain wanted proof, but he knew he wouldn’t be allowed to see her corpse. _ Her corpse _ . He squeezed his eyes shut. The word _ corpse _ echoed through his head, carrying on it a hot, heavy nausea. Thomas drew a shaky breath through his cigarette. His mouth was dry, drier than it had been when he first woke. _ I must be dehydrated _ , he thought. He’d not drunk anything since Sybil’s death was announced, and he’d cried a _ lot _ . How many hours had it been? He reached for his pocket watch. It was almost midday. He needed to get up. He needed to do his damn _ job _, but he hadn’t the energy. He wanted to lay still forever, wanted to…

A knock at the door startled his cigarette from his hand. He scrambled to pick it up before it could catch the duvet on fire, and- _ ah, fuck! _ He grabbed the hot end and cried out as his fingertips put it out. The door swung open and Daisy rushed in with a tray.

“You alright? What happened?” she asked, setting down the tray on the bedside cabinet. She stared transfixed on the thin stream of smoke curling up from the sheets.

“Dropped my cigarette,” Thomas said sheepishly, wincing at the strain it put on his dry throat. “What are you doing on the mens’ side?” Daisy gestured to the tray. There was a teapot, a cup, a glass of water and a covered bowl of something.

“You missed breakfast and lunch. Thought you might be hungry.” She filled the mug from the teapot and handed it to him. “I snuck up. Mrs Patmore don’t know I’m here.”

“You’re too kind,” Thomas said, and took a sip of tea. He wasn’t exaggerating. He’d done nothing to deserve her kindness.

“Oh, Alfred valeted his Lordship this morning and he’s happy to do the same this evening if you’re not feeling up to doing it yourself,” Daisy said. “Jimmy’s taking on some of his tasks to give him the time.” Thomas almost choked on his tea. “Oh, no, it’s alright. They don’t mind.”

But that wasn’t what bothered Thomas. Now that he knew _ Jimmy _ was up, he had no excuse to stay in bed any longer! Jimmy had stayed up with him all night, he should be just as tired. Wait… He glanced at his bookcase. The Bible and the book of Norse Myths, side by side. Perhaps he’d been looking at it all wrong. Maybe…

“Mr Barrow-” Daisy began. “Thomas. Thomas, are you okay?” She touched his arm ever so briefly, not even for a full second, but it warmed his whole body. He looked up at her, but couldn’t meet her eyes. Her teeth were worrying her lip. He nodded. “I have to get back to work. D’you need me to send someone up?”

Thomas shook his head, “No, I’m… I’m okay. I’ll come down once I’ve eaten this.”

Daisy nodded and excused herself.

Thomas’s head was spinning. He thought of Jimmy, how they’d sat together for hours, shoulders touching in the brisk night air. How Jimmy had given him cigarette after cigarette until the packet was empty. How he’d placed his hand ever so tenderly on Thomas’s knee each time his sobs grew audible. How he’d seemed so _ comfortable _ with Thomas’s touch as they wound the clock together.

But it would change nothing to think of such things now. He sighed and took the tray onto his lap. He took the lid off the bowl and realised it was his favourite cheese soup. He wondered if Daisy had made it specially. It wasn’t something they ate often, so he supposed she must have done. He couldn’t help but smile slightly. They weren’t close and probably never would be, but Daisy insisted on being kind despite all he’d done to her and William.

Thomas ate the soup slowly, savouring every bite, trying to keep his mind off other things. _ In this moment _ , he told himself, _ there is no world: only soup. _ It brought him some comfort, to imagine that nothing and no one was real at all, and that being hated was all just an illusion, but did nothing to soothe his loneliness. He was almost tempted to hold his pocket watch to his ear, to close his eyes and pretend its ticking was the steady heartbeat of his lover… It had been years since he’d pretended such a thing, and he almost felt ashamed that the thought had come to him now.

He hadn’t quite finished eating yet, but found his eyes wandering back to the bookcase. He’d thought from the moment Sybil’s return was announced that she was the friend whichever god answered his prayer had sent. The more he thought about it, though, the more Jimmy seemed like he might have been sent by an angel. Or maybe he _ was _ the angel. Thomas hated to dream, because reality always snubbed him, but Jimmy seemed to interact with Thomas… differently to how he was to everyone else. And he’d displayed angelic kindness last night that Thomas wouldn’t ever feel capable of deserving.

Thomas set his empty bowl aside and got ready to face the afternoon.

* * *

“You got any booze?” Jimmy asked Alfred, dropping into the chair next to him. “I need a drink.”

“You need to _ sleep _,” Alfred said, shaking his head. “I have half a bottle of wine in my room. Sometimes if you ask Mr Carson nicely, he’ll give you what’s leftover from upstairs dinner.”

Jimmy grimaced, then shrugged, “That’ll do. Reckon you could ask him for more?”

“You ask.”

“He likes you better,” Jimmy pointed out. Alfred frowned. “And I’m shite at ‘asking nicely’.”

“Alright, fair enough. My room or yours?” he asked. Jimmy paused for a moment to think. Jimmy’s room shared a wall with Mr Barrow’s. Alfred’s room shared a wall with Mr Molesley’s. Which was the less shit option? Oh, he’d not been in Alfred’s room yet!

“Yours. We were in mine last night, s’only fair.” It was a different circumstance, but the excuse seemed to work. “Oh, d’you have any smokes? I gave Mr Barrow my last one.”

“I don’t smoke,” Alfred said. He stood up. “I’ll go and ask Mr Carson now, and then I’ll knock for you.”

He walked out of the servants’ hall, and after a few seconds Jimmy bid a quick goodnight to Anna, who was sewing something or other, and headed upstairs to his bedroom.

He was getting good at changing in and out of his livery, Jimmy thought, as he changed into his pyjamas. He looked at himself in the mirror. It was still weird seeing his hair slicked back the way he had to keep it now. He ran his fingers through it to loosen it and cringed at the feeling of pomade on his skin. It was disgusting shit. He missed his hairspray and the way it held his hair in the exact kind of disarray he liked best. Maybe he’d be able to do that with pomade eventually, but he didn’t have that kind of skill with it yet. _ And I can’t have it like that for work anyway _, he thought bitterly. He could manage without boys, but he utterly hated that his freedom of expression had been stolen away since arriving in 1920. He liked looking good, but it was hard with such strict rules about how he could wear everything.

Someone, presumably Alfred, knocked on the door. Jimmy dragged himself away from the mirror and opened the door. Alfred held up two open bottles of wine. Jimmy grinned at him and they walked across the hall together.

Alfred’s room was maybe bigger than Jimmy’s, but only slightly. Not enough for him to whinge about it. It was meticulously tidy, his bookcase actually _ organised _ and nothing at all dumped on the floor. The laundry chair, as it was in every other bedroom Jimmy had ever been in, had no clothes on it, either dirty or clean, and was actually tucked in at the writing desk. If only the KonMari method had been invented sooner- Jimmy was sure Alfred would’ve loved it.

“How can you stand to live in such a tidy room?” he asked, sitting down on the floor. Alfred snorted.

“How can _ you _ stand to live in such a messy room?” he retorted. “You almost had _ me _ crying last night with the state of your floor.” He sat down next to Jimmy and handed him a glass. “What d’you want first?”

“I s’pose _ you _ want to go through them in the same order the family do?” Jimmy teased. Alfred shrugged.

“I wouldn’t mind, if that’s alright with you,” he said. Jimmy shrugged and held out his glass. Alfred filled it up, and then filled his own as Jimmy chugged it. It was fucking disgusting, but it was still alcohol.

“Not a fan of that. Can I have more?”

Alfred pushed the bottle towards him, agast, “What is with you and drinking everything so fast? Did you even taste it?” He took a small sip, and then another.

“I don’t drink for taste, I drink for the way it makes me feel.” Jimmy took a long slug directly from the bottle. He could feel it already. He’d not had any alcohol in a few weeks, and he’d not eaten much all day so it definitely wouldn’t take much to get him going.

“You’re unbelievable,” Alfred said. “I don’t much like this one either, you can have the rest.” He poured himself a small glass of the next one. He took a sip and then poured a bit more. “This one’s nicer.” Jimmy chugged the rest of the first bottle. Alfred totally filled Jimmy’s glass with the next one.

Jimmy grinned, “You know me so well already.” He raised his glass. “To friendship, or something like that.” He downed the glass in one. Somehow, that flipped some sort of switch in Alfred and he started laughing, properly laughing, for the first time Jimmy had seen. Maybe he wasn’t a boring, humourless prick after all.

“To- to friendship!” Alfred managed to says between laughs. Maybe he was just a massive lightweight. Jimmy was an experienced binge-drinker but this wine was strong stuff, and already going to _ his _ head. He couldn’t really picture Alfred getting more than a little tipsy at all.

They slowed down, then, and as the next hour rolled on, they both got tipsier and tipsier and then started getting drunk. Alfred hadn’t drunk even a quarter of what Jimmy had, but they seemed to be at about the same level of intoxication. Alfred went to refill his glass.

“Ahh, we’ve run out…” he whined, dropping his head onto Jimmy’s shoulder. So they’d had, what, a little more than a bottle each, in total. “We should- we should…”

“Bed?” Jimmy asked. “Fuck, Alfie, we’ve got to… fucking work in the morning.” Alfred looked up into his eyes and blinked a few times.

“Ughhh… I don’t think I can stand,” he slurred. “Help me up.”

It took them ten minutes of exhausting teamwork, but they finally managed it. They bid each other goodnight and Jimmy tried to sneak back across to his room as quietly as possible. He was fiddling with his door handle when someone spoke behind him.

“What’re you doing up at this time?” Jimmy looked over his shoulder, leaning heavily on the door, and saw Mr Barrow. His hair was a dishevelled mess and his eyes were swollen half shut with sleep. “Are you drunk?” Jimmy nodded.

“Door’s stuck.” Mr Barrow reached out and opened it with ease. “Thanks. You okay?” Mr Barrow smiled slightly and looked away.

“Fine. Needed the toilet. Go to sleep.” He squeezed Jimmy’s shoulder and walked down to his own door. Jimmy stumbled into his room, shut the door and grabbed his skin where Mr Barrow had touched him. Was he red? His face- no, his whole body- felt hot. Shit. He’d only felt normal touch craving when he was sitting with Alfred, but… He head swam and spun trying to think about it.

He checked the time (2:50am-ish) and took his medication. Technically, he wasn’t supposed to mix it with alcohol, but he was too drunk to care.

He flopped across the bed, skin still burning with yearning, and drifted into sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this has taken so long!! I've had the chapter ready for ages (this is the point I'd written to when I first started posting) but anxiety's been kicking my arse for the last couple of months and I was just finding it absolutely impossible to press 'Post'. So, if you've stuck with me this long, thank you so, so much <3
> 
> I hope it's worth at least some of the wait.

Some of the melancholy had started to lift from the servants at breakfast, but it was still awfully quiet compared to usual. As much as Thomas usually longed for quiet in the morning, he’d grown so used to the noise that it had become almost comforting to him. Jimmy was badly hungover, so visibly exhausted that the others were shooting him concerned looks. He was on his fifth cup of tea already- Daisy had given him an entire pot to himself. Alfred had yet to show up.

“Mr Carson,” Thomas said quietly, low enough that only they and Mrs Hughes would hear. “Should I be ready to help serve upstairs breakfast this morning?” He looked pointedly at Alfred’s empty seat.

Carson nodded, “Yes, Mr Barrow, that might be-” He cut himself off mid-sentence as Alfred walked in, looking somehow worse than Jimmy. He dropped into his seat and took a piece of toast, which he started to eat without buttering it first. Ah, he and Jimmy had been drinking  _ together _ . “It’s nice of you to finally join us, Alfred.”

“Sorry. Couldn’t- couldn’t find my- shoes,” Alfred said, frowning. Jimmy snorted into his tea. Mr Carson raised his eyebrows, utterly unconvinced. Alfred desperately needed to work on his lying skills. He turned to Jimmy, “Have you bloody got your own teapot? Give me some.”

“It’s empty,” Jimmy said, pouring himself another cup.

“Language, Alfred,” Mrs Hughes reprimanded softly. “And James, don’t be stingy.” Jimmy rolled his eyes, winced and filled Alfred’s cup. He set the teapot back down and the two footmen shared a small smile.

After just a few minutes of slow eating, Alfred put half a slice of plain toast back down on his plate and leaned back in his chair.

“You alright, Alfred? You’ve barely eaten,” Anna said softly. He nodded as Daisy walked in with a fresh pot of tea.

“Just not hungry.” Alfred looked even more blank-minded than usual, if that was possible. Daisy frowned across at him as she refilled Mr Molesley’s cup. She looked far more worried than Alfred deserved, even if it  _ was _ the first time Alfred had been hungover in the four months he’d been at Downton. Thomas briefly wondered if it was his first hangover, but there was no way that could be right. What  _ did _ Daisy see in Alfred, anyway? Her taste in men always seemed so… odd.

Thomas watched her as she finished refilling cups and made to leave the servants’ hall again. Before she made it out of the door, she turned back around, took two sachets out of her apron pocket, and placed them between Jimmy and Alfred.

“You both look like you need them,” she said, and left without waiting for their muttered  _ thank yous _ .

Anna turned to Thomas, “How are you coping?” she asked in an undertone. “You seem much less down than yesterday.” Thomas gave her a small smile.

“Well, I have to get a hold of myself sometime, don’t I?” His knife punched a hole through the slice of toast he was covering in jam. He grimaced. Anna was unconvinced, but thankfully she didn’t press.

“Well, if you need someone to talk to, I’m here.” The bell for Lord Grantham’s dressing room rang rather conveniently. Thomas nodded and forced out a smile as he stood to leave.

When he came back downstairs to help load up the breakfast trays, he paused outside Mr Carson’s office door. Carson was shouting inside, loud enough that Thomas didn’t have to lean into the door, let alone strain his ears, to hear him.

“I don’t suppose I shall be giving  _ either _ of you  _ any _ leftover wine until I’m quite sure you’ve learnt your lesson!” Thomas cringed. It was a very slight adaptation of a speech he’d been given on more than one occasion in his first couple of years at Downton. He still couldn’t understand why Carson felt it necessary to shout quite so loudly at people who obviously had sore heads already. He supposed it was just another facet of his well hidden viciousness.

Thomas continued through to the kitchen. He could still hear Carson from here, but not quite clearly enough to make out the words (though he probably could’ve recited them from memory if anyone asked).

“I thought I’d start getting this organised while Carson’s raging,” he said. “Take the pressure off Jimmy and Alfred a bit.” He grabbed a tray and started loading it, careful to keep it well balanced both physically and aesthetically.

“I don’t think it’s fair of Mr Carson to shout at them like that,” Ivy said, handing Thomas a bowl of something pretentious. “All they did was drink a bit too much.”

Thomas snorted, “You didn’t see Jimmy last night. Three o’clock, reckoned his door was jammed. Wasn’t even turning the handle.” The girls laughed. “It was more than just ‘a bit too much’. Still, every footman gets that speech at least once. It’s like an initiation, almost. You’re not a proper Downton footman until you get the leftover wine lecture.”

“I can’t imagine you drunk,” Ivy said thoughtfully. Mrs Patmore laughed out loud at that.

“He was hungover more often than not his first year here!” she exclaimed. Ivy stared incredulously at him.

The noise level suddenly dropped and Jimmy and Alfred hurried into the kitchen. Thomas had almost finished loading the trays, so he didn’t step aside even when Alfred offered to take over.

“It’s okay, I’m all done,” Thomas said, turning one of the dishes slightly before stepping back. Mr Carson stepped into the kitchen, then, and frowned when he realised that Thomas had lightened the footmen’s loads. Bloody hell, there was just no pleasing some people!

“Thank you, Mr Barrow,” Carson said dryly. “Since Alfred  _ did _ eventually decide to show his face downstairs, we will not be needing your help to serve breakfast.” Jimmy and Alfred scrambled for their trays and hurried behind Carson as he led the way up the stairs.

After a few seconds of silence, Ivy piped up, “I don’t think he liked you helping with that.”

Thomas sighed, “Mr Carson doesn’t much like anything I do.” He turned on his heel and headed outside for a smoke.

* * *

Thomas leant against the kitchen door frame, only half listening to the younger ones chattering away as the girls worked. Jimmy’s hangover seemed to have almost cleared. He was livelier than he’d been in several days. Alfred, on the other hand, was still whining like a child at every opportunity.

“D’you reckon it’s been long enough since I last had a powder to have another?” he asked. Daisy rushed to fetch the medical box they were kept in. Mrs Patmore tutted.

“Anyone’d think you’d never drank before,” she said as she stirred a large pot of something-or-other.

“Not like that, I haven’t,” Alfred moaned as Daisy handed him the dissolved medicine. “Jimmy just kept on drinking, and it’s stronger stuff than I’m used to.” Jimmy absolutely cracked up at that. Thomas couldn’t quite tell how much of his laughter was real and how much was exaggerated.

“He was tipsy off one small glass of wine.” He showed the depth of the glass with his fingers. That was  _ definitely _ exaggerated. “And pissed off of three.”

“Even  _ I _ can handle more than that!” Ivy said. “How long d’you reckon before Mr Carson lets you drink again?”

“Does he have to know?” Jimmy asked. “My half day’s on the eighteenth, I’ll buy myself a bit of something cheap then and make it last. How far off’s that?” He scrunched his face up as he tried to remember the date. 

“Three days,” Thomas said. Jimmy frowned and started counting on his fingers. He counted back by three over and over, tilting his head to the side, until it seemed everyone in the room was starting to worry about how he was behaving.

“Today’s the fifteenth?” he asked. Thomas nodded, and all of a sudden Jimmy visibly perked up, overtaken by a strange look Thomas had no hope of interpreting. “Could I- would I get told off for using the piano, d’you think?”

“I don’t see why you would,” Mrs Patmore said. “Why? What nonsense are you thinking of now?”

Jimmy bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, “It’s just, there’s- there’s this song I  _ always _ play on the fifteenth of August. Every year, since I was thirteen. Always play it. It’s like- it’s a tradition.” The gleam in his bright blue eyes seemed to be lighting up the whole room, and Thomas found himself genuinely smiling for the first time in two days.

“Come on then,” Alfred said, “Show us.” Jimmy, Thomas and Alfred made towards the servants’ hall with its piano.

“Please, Mrs Patmore, can we-”

She cut Daisy off, “Go on then, the pair of you. But just the one song, you’ve work to do!”

“Thank you, Mrs Patmore!” Ivy said as she and Daisy hurried to catch up to the men.

Jimmy settled himself down into the piano bench and wiggled his fingers for a few seconds. He bit his lip before setting his fingertips down on the keys.

“I’ve not played in about a month.” He sounded understandably nervous, with his small audience crowding around him, but he started pressing down on the keys and a beautiful, lively melody filled the room. Jimmy may not have played in a month, but it had been much longer than that since Thomas had  _ watched _ someone play. He stared, transfixed, at Jimmy’s fingers as they glided across the keys. The lower part, Jimmy’s left hand, was a selection of well-timed chords that matched perfectly with the melody his right hand played on the higher notes. The right only played one note at a time, and Thomas wondered if the song had lyrics. Singing in front of people he hardly knew would be daunting, so Thomas couldn’t blame Jimmy for keeping his voice a secret.

It was over far too soon. There was a small smattering of light applause from around the room, which Thomas found himself joining in with. Anna, a hallboy and two housemaids had made their way into the servants’ hall during the song, it seemed, and found themselves enjoying it just as much as he had.

“You’re brilliant at that, Jimmy,” Ivy breathed, staring down at him in a way that reminded Thomas to be careful of how  _ he _ was looking at Jimmy, too.

“Thanks,” Jimmy said, grinning up at her.

“We should get back to work,” Daisy said. She looked a little sad, for some- oh. The piano had lain silent since William. Somehow, Thomas had forgotten that himself. Daisy grabbed Ivy by the arm and started back towards the kitchen.

“Play something else,” Alfred said, dropping into a chair.

“Like what?” Jimmy asked.

Alfred shrugged, “Something fun.”

Thomas snorted and leaned into the wall.

“Fun’s subjective,” he said. Jimmy nodded in agreement. “Play the first song that comes into your head.”

Jimmy paused for a moment, thinking. Then he started playing, his fingers flowing smoothly across the keys. This song had some similarities to the last one, but Thomas couldn’t have begun to describe them. They had similar energies, he supposed, even though they were clearly different songs. Perhaps they were written by the same person.

As the song ended, Thomas found his hand resting on Jimmy’s shoulder.

“You’re very talented,” he said. Jimmy grinned up at him. “You’ll have to play more for us later. But we should probably all get back to work now, before Carson decides to shout any more than he already has.” Jimmy snorted.

“Yeah, thanks.” He stood up. Thomas reluctantly withdrew his hand, letting his fingertips trail behind a second longer than necessary. Jimmy’s cheeks reddened slightly. “Come on, Alfred, we’ve got  _ polishing _ to do!” Thomas’s breath hitched as Jimmy turned away from him. His heart was pounding, and his body was-

He needed a smoke.

On his way outside, he detoured slightly to the toilet. He splashed his face with cold water and stared into the mirror.

“Get a fucking hold of yourself,” he muttered to his reflection. He rubbed the seam of his glove as he waited a short eternity for his colour to come down.

God, he needed more than just a smoke.

* * *

“Give us some music, Jimmy,” Ivy said after dinner, sitting down in the seat he’d only just vacated. He’d been about to sit in the second rocking chair beside Mr Barrow, but apparently it was not to be.

“Oh, you play?” Mr Molesley asked. Jimmy nodded with a small sigh and walked on past the rocking chair to the piano bench. “I’ve not heard any music in a while, this’ll be nice.”

“Any requests?” Jimmy asked. Really, he only wanted to play more Kagerou Project songs, but he wasn’t sure how well that’d go down. Hopefully no one would request a song he didn’t know.

“How about the second one from earlier? Ivy didn’t get to hear that one,” Alfred suggested. Jimmy grinned and launched into  _ Konoha’s State of the World _ . He slipped up on a couple of notes, but he doubted anyone would notice. It wasn’t like any of them really  _ knew _ the song.

When he finished, he looked over he shoulder and felt a sharp pang in his chest as he noticed that Mr Barrow had left the room sometime during the song. Had he been lying earlier when he’d complimented Jimmy’s playing? Was Jimmy distracting him (or worse,  _ annoying _ him) with his music? Jimmy’s heart pounded hard. He tried to smile at the gentle applause he was receiving, but he feared it came out all wrong.

“Do the first one again!” Ivy said brightly.

“Okay,” Jimmy said, and started up playing again, though his heart wasn’t quite so in it as it had been at first.

He worked gradually through a few more of his favourites, and conversation slowly picked up around him as he played. Good, he was no longer the main focus of the room. He felt calmer the more the others talked, less and less afraid to mess up.

As he played the final note of  _ Yuukei Yesterday _ , he felt a hand on his shoulder. A shiver ran up his spine and he gasped. Mr Barrow had come back to the servants’ hall, and was standing close beside him.

“I found this old thing in my room,” Mr Barrow said, barely above a whisper, and handed Jimmy a worn songbook. “Thought you might make better use of it than me.”

So he hadn’t left to get away from Jimmy’s music after all! Jimmy looked up at him, deeply relieved.

“Thanks. Do you play?” he asked, scanning the cover of the book.  _ Modern Songs for Young Pianists _ . According to the information on the front page, it was published in 1911. It was covered in little pencil sketches of all sorts of things, and as Jimmy flicked through he realised that every song was quite heavily annotated.

“I can find middle C,” Mr Barrow said. “And I can read music very slowly, but only if it’s all crotchets.”

Jimmy laughed, “This looks well used, for you not playing… You get it second hand or something?” Jimmy thought he saw a flicker or sadness cross Mr Barrow’s face, but it was gone so quickly he might have imagined it.

“It belonged to a friend.” His tone wasn’t particularly sad or harsh, but somehow Jimmy knew not to ask more. Mr Barrow had lived through the war, after all. He must have lost people he cared for. “Go on then, play something. Your audience is waiting!” He squeezed Jimmy’s shoulder with a teasing smile.

Jimmy settled on a piece with a name he recognised,  _ Oh That Beautiful Rag _ . He scanned the music and began to play, hoping that he’d recognise it when he heard it.

Yes, he’d definitely heard this before! With each passing note he got more comfortable with the tune. He didn’t think he’d ever  _ played _ it before, so he supposed it’d been an example song for a module in Music class sometime before GCSEs.

As the song came to an end, Mrs Hughes said, “You play well, James.” He turned his head and beamed at her.

“There’s no end to Jimmy’s talents, is there?” Mr Barrow said before Jimmy had a chance to say ‘thank you’. He sounded prouder than anyone had ever been of him, making something strange swell within Jimmy’s heart. 

Mr Barrow stepped around to Jimmy’s other side and ran his hand across Jimmy’s shoulder and neck. Jimmy strained to keep his face neutral, but the sensation was making his blood run hot and sending his stomach rolling. His body longed for it so, so desperately, wanted to lean into the touch, to  _ further _ it, to feel him everywhere. His head wanted it to stop, wanted him to slap his hand away and forbid him from touching him again. He tried to put his fingers back to the keys, but he was frozen in place. He felt sick. The dissonance was splitting his head, making it impossible to speak, think, even to  _ breathe _ .

“His Lordship wants you.” Miss O’Brien’s voice snapped both Jimmy and Mr Barrow back to reality. Mr Barrow stroked down Jimmy’s shoulder as he withdrew his hand and walked silently away. Jimmy found himself able to draw his trembling hands into his lap, out of sight.

“I wish he wouldn’t do that,” Jimmy muttered to himself.

“What?”

Shit, Miss O’Brien had heard him.

“He’s always touching me.”  _ Shut up, Jimmy! _ “I’m going to tell Mr Carson.”

“You’d never.”

_ No _ , he thought,  _ I wouldn’t _ .

“I’d tell the flippin’ police if it’d make him stop.”

_ Shut up shut up shut up! _

“I must go,” Miss O’Brien said carefully. “I need to fetch some linen, and her Ladyship won’t be long now.”

She turned and left without another word, leaving Jimmy stewing in his own stupidity.

_ Stupid fucking idiot! _ he berated himself. Why had he said that crap? He didn’t know. He’d not even  _ thought _ the words until they were halfway out of his mouth.

“I’m going to bed,” he announced shakily, gripping the songbook tight in his hand as he left the servants’ hall.

Halfway up the stairs, Alfred caught up with him.

“You alright?” he asked. Jimmy nodded wordlessly. He didn’t dare look at him or speak- his face and voice would betray him in an instant. He closed his eyes for a moment while he tried to steady his breathing. “You got upset the last time Aunt-  _ Miss O’Brien _ spoke to you, too. Is it something she said?”

Jimmy bit his lip and shook his head. He kept walking. Alfred just wouldn’t leave it, though, and even as Jimmy stepped into his bedroom and tried to shut the door, he stuck his foot in the doorway and stared unblinkingly down at him.

“We’re friends, Jimmy,” he said. “Tell me what’s wrong. I’m not leaving until you do.”

Jimmy plastered on a fake smile, “Just feel a bit sick. Think I ate too much. I’m fine, really. Just need a good sleep.”

Alfred didn’t look convinced, but Jimmy was pushing the door so hard that he was sure he’d have to move his foot soon.

Finally, he relented, “Okay, fine. D’you need anything?” Jimmy shook his head and shut the door. He loosened his tie, dropped the songbook on top of the bedside cupboard and took his pill. He sat still for a few moments, then set about getting ready for bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aiming to post a chapter a day now, until I've caught back up to the chapter-a-week average I originally intended, and then hopefully we'll be back to Friday updates as before.


	9. Chapter 9

From the moment Jimmy woke up, he knew that it was definitely _ not _ going to be a good day. He’d slept terribly, plagued by dreams that he knew were just his brain trying to process the shit he’d refused to think about while awake but which had him startling upright at three o’clock, sweaty and nauseous, all the same. No amount of tea or smokes seemed to settle him. His stupid mind would not shut up. Every damn _ you alright? _ from Alfred took him one step closer to putting his fist through a wall. He nodded silently at every order Carson barked. He didn’t trust himself not to snap if he tried to speak.

More than anything, he was trying to avoid Mr Barrow. When they’d smoked together that morning (Jimmy was out there first, trying to _ avoid _ conversation, when Mr Barrow had come out), Mr Barrow had concerned himself with Jimmy’s heightened irritability and the dark rings under his eyes. Alfred had snitched to him about last night’s _ feeling sick _ lie, apparently, because he’d reached his hand out to feel Jimmy’s forehead. Jimmy had slammed himself backwards into the wall to avoid the touch. He knew even that little would just be too much right now.

“I’m just in a bad mood today,” he said, stamping out his cigarette and starting back inside. “And I’d like to be left alone.”

As he passed the door of the servants’ hall, he glanced in and saw Alfred and Daisy dancing. Daisy seemed to be guiding Alfred through it, talking him through each step as they went. A rush of vindictive impulse surged in Jimmy’s throat and he stepped into the room.

“Look at the pair of you,” he laughed. They leapt apart.

“Alfred’s learning the foxtrot,” Daisy said cheerfully.

“I bet he is,” Jimmy snipped. “But he’s going to have to do better than that.”

“What d’you mean? Why?” Daisy asked.

“Well, he’s only learning it to please our Ivy.” Did he sound like a prick? He definitely sounded like a prick. But he didn’t care. “Aren’t you, m’laddo?” He smiled brightly as Alfred face contorted into something that was very clearly telling to shut the fuck up.

“Is that true?” Daisy sounded halfway between disbelieving and disappointed.

“Well…” Alfred’s mind didn’t work fast enough for him to think of a justification on the spot, Jimmy knew.

“Of course it is, you runner bean,” Jimmy interrupted smugly. “Now step aside, and let me show you how it’s done.” He strode across and took Daisy by the hand, spinning her into position in his arms. Thank god he’d learnt the dance in his GCSE Drama lessons. It wasn’t something most of his peers back in the 21st century knew. He hummed softly as he led Daisy across the floor, staring straight into her blue eyes. Even without looking up, he knew Alfred was scowling. It was the best Jimmy had felt all day.

“What is going on here?” Carson’s boom startled Jimmy and Daisy apart. “At a time like this, of sober dignity! Have you lost all sense of shame and propriety, sir?” Jimmy’s heart pounded in his ears as Carson came closer. “What makes you think you’re the stuff of a first footman? It’s Alfred who looks like a first footman to me!” Alfred smiled smugly and drew himself up to his full height. “Take a leaf from his book and learn to conduct yourself with discretion!”

Refusing to be beaten, Jimmy frowned, “But Mr Carson, he was the one who-”

“Silence! You are a disgrace to your livery,” Carson barked. He turned to Daisy, his face no less terrifying. “And as for you, Daisy, have your years here taught you nothing?” He looked them over once more before marching out.

“Thanks for speaking up,” Jimmy snapped at Alfred before storming towards the door. If he heard the smug prick’s voice again, he might well thump him.

“I don’t suppose you’ll want to practice…” Alfred began to Daisy, but she cut him off.

“I’m very busy,” she snapped with more bite than Jimmy had known her capable of. “Why don’t you ask Ivy if she’s got any spare time?”

Jimmy fumed as he walked back outside. Hopefully Mr Barrow would’ve finished his smoke break by now.

No such luck. Jimmy ignored him as he rounded the corner and leant back against the wall. He took out his lighter and a cigarette, but his hands were trembling slightly and he couldn’t get the bloody thing lit. It didn’t help at all that Mr Barrow was staring at him.

After about thirty seconds of fumbling with the lighter, Mr Barrow’s hand wrapped around his and carefully lit the cigarette for him.

“What was that all about?” Mr Barrow asked unblinkingly. “I could hear Carson shouting from out here.” Jimmy ignored him. Mr Barrow stamped his cigarette out and lit himself another. “‘S alright, you don’t have to tell me.”

And there they stood, smoking in silence, until a housemaid came to call them in.

* * *

The next day, when Jimmy and Alfred took a lull in their workload as a chance to sidetrack the girls in the kitchen, Jimmy found himself feeling much better about the previous afternoon’s altercation.

“I just think it was awful of you, Alfred,” Ivy said. “To let Jimmy get ticked off like that when _ you _ started it all.” Ha. Served the prick right.

“He deserved it, though!” Alfred protested. “He upset Daisy!” Daisy snorted inelegantly from across the room.

“You were using her,” Jimmy interjected. “I just didn’t want to give you the chance to hurt her.” It was bullshit, of course. He’d not cared about whether or not he hurt Daisy- he was preoccupied with hurting Alfred.

Ivy gazed at him warmly, “You a good bloke, Jimmy. I’m glad we’ve got you to stick up for us.” He smiled and gave a small mock-bow.

From the doorway, Mr Barrow cleared his throat.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he began. “But could I borrow Daisy for a few minutes?” He looked tired, and his thumb was tracing back and forth across the seam of his glove. Was something wrong?

“Can I, Mrs Patmore?” Daisy asked, already wiping her hands and stepping away from her work.

Mrs Patmore nodded, “Go on, then. But be quick!” The pair thanked her and left the kitchen.

“I wonder what that’s about,” Ivy mused. “D’you think he’s soft on her? He’s so hard to read…” Mrs Patmore snorted.

“We crossed _ that _ bridge long ago,” she muttered. “Don’t you lot be thinking on it anymore.”

“He is handsome though, in’t he?” Ivy lowered her voice. Jimmy shrugged.

“Is he? I hadn’t really noticed,” he said as nonchalantly as he could manage. Ivy gave him a strange look.

“Jimmy doesn’t notice anything outside himself,” Alfred said. Ivy scowled at him.

“Don’t be so unkind, Alfred! At least Jimmy doesn’t manipulate his friends,” she said. Jimmy almost smirked, but caught himself. If only Ivy knew… She was pretty and lively, but not the most perceptive, apparently.

“Thank you for sticking up for me, Ivy,” he said. They shared a smile. “It means a lot.” And it did, in a way. He liked her. Possibly, he was starting to care for her. God, he hoped so. Anything to drag his mind away from Mr Barrow.

“That’s enough of that,” Mrs Patmore interrupted. “Ivy, don’t slow your pace just because Daisy’s popped out.” Ivy obliged, picking her knife back up and chopping the vegetables in front of her.

“D’you reckon Mr Barrow’s got a sweetheart?” Ivy whispered. Jimmy laughed softly. He certainly hoped so. It would make things much easier for _ him _, at the very least.

“Ivy!” Mrs Patmore snapped. “Less talk of Mr Barrow’s love life and more vegetable chopping!”

A chuckle from the doorway turned all their heads. Daisy giggled as she walked back in. Mr Barrow was smiling but his face was… unreadable, somehow.

“What’s this?” he asked. His eyes flickered towards Jimmy and away again several times.

“Ivy wants to know if you’ve got a sweetheart,” Jimmy said with a grin. Mr Barrow raised his eyebrows.

“Really? Why’s that, then?” he asked. Ivy’s cheeks flushed bright red. She said nothing.

Mrs Patmore, however, did, “We don’t want to hear a thing about _ your _ love life.” Whatever did _ that _ mean?

Mr Barrow’s smile faltered for a moment. He looked down at the floor. When he looked up, perfect smile back in place, Jimmy noticed a hint of sadness in his eyes.

“No, Ivy, I do not have a sweetheart,” he said. “I haven’t in a few years now. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to be getting on with, and I’m sure you all do too.” He looked pointedly at Jimmy and Alfred before leaving.

Ivy waited until he was out of sight before asking, “What did he want with you, Daisy?”

“Nothing much. He found something of William’s and wasn’t sure what to do with it,” Daisy said. “He wanted to ask me away from everyone else in case I got upset.”

“If only all blokes were that thoughtful…” Ivy said.

“What did I say, Ivy?” Mrs Patmore interrupted once more. “That’s enough, now. And you two boys, out with you now!”

* * *

It wasn’t until the day after he’d given Jimmy the songbook that it occurred to Thomas that it maybe had not been the best idea. It had been an impulsive decision, and seeing the look on Jimmy’s face had kept him from thinking on it at first, but after about 24 hours he started to regret turning it into a gift again. He was the one who’d paid for the book in the first place, so he felt _ justified _ in passing it on, but it still made him feel… guilty? Yes, guilty.

The songbook had once belonged to William Mason.

It was with this in mind that Thomas made his way to the kitchen. He needed to talk to Daisy, to apologise to her before Jimmy had a chance to realise the book’s origin.

He grimaced when he reached the kitchen. Jimmy and Alfred were both in there, slacking off. Ivy was complimenting Jimmy, who seemed to be loving the attention. They didn’t notice him arrive, so he cleared his throat to get their attention.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, thumbing his glove. “But could I borrow Daisy for a few minutes?” Mrs Patmore sighed. She’d obviously had enough imposition in her kitchen for one day.

“Can I, Mrs Patmore?” Daisy asked. She didn’t wait for an answer, so Mrs Patmore didn’t really have much of a choice but to let her go.

“Go on, then,” she agreed. “But be quick!”

Daisy followed Thomas as he led her out into the courtyard.

“Is something the matter?” she asked. He paused and lit up a cigarette. He wasn’t exactly sure how to answer that. He held the pack out to her but she shook her head. “Not for me, thanks.”

“I’ve done something… foolish,” Thomas began. Daisy looked confused. “With an old thing of William’s I had. A songbook.” Her face changed into something Thomas couldn’t quite identify. “I gave it to Jimmy, the other night.”

“Why did you have it in the first place?” she asked, frowning a bit.

“I bought it for him for his birthday, the first year he worked here,” Thomas explained carefully. “Before he shipped out, he asked me to hold to it for him. I should’ve given it to you when he- came home.” Daisy was listening carefully. Thomas drew in a shaky breath through his cigarette. “But I wasn’t sure how. So I just sort of… kept it.”

“I never knew you were close enough to give each other gifts,” Daisy said. She seemed to be taking it better than Thomas had anticipated. “But he gave it to you over me for a reason. It’s for you to do with as you please, and surely it’s best for it to be passed on to someone who’ll use it, in’t it?” There it was, that incorrigibly kind and simple logic Daisy’s wisdom always came from. She could probably talk someone out of crying, given the opportunity.

“Are you sure you’re okay with it, though?” Thomas asked one last time. “It’s got some of his little doodles in it. We all used to scribble in it all the time, me and him and the hallboys.”

Daisy beamed at him, “Course I’m okay with it. I’ll just have to look over Jimmy’s shoulder at it when he’s playing, won’t I?” Thomas chuckled and stomped out his cigarette. “Shall we go back in?”

“Yeah. Thanks,” Thomas said. Daisy led the way, and Thomas shook his head slightly as he followed. How could she manage to be so kind to him, after he’d spent so much effort on sabotaging her love life when they were younger?

As they reached the kitchen, he heard Mrs Patmore telling Ivy off.

“Less talk of Mr Barrow’s love life and more vegetable chopping!”

Daisy laughed as she walked back in, and Thomas found himself chuckling slightly, too.

“What’s this?” he asked. He desperately tried not to look at Jimmy, leaning gorgeously against the counter in the centre of the room.

“Ivy wants to know if you’ve got a sweetheart,” Jimmy teased. Thomas wasn’t quite sure if it was him or Ivy being teased, or possibly both, but his tone was definitely lighthearted mockery. Thomas decided to play along.

“Really? Why’s that then?” he asked, returning Jimmy’s smile when Ivy’s face reddened. He’d forgotten how much fun teasing maids could be.

“We don’t want to hear a thing about _ your _ love life,” Mrs Patmore spat, her voice slapping Thomas across the face and punching a hole in his good mood. He glanced down to compose himself, feeling slightly sick.

He looked back up and said, “No, Ivy, I do not have a sweetheart. I haven’t in a few years now.” It was no word of a lie. He’d not had a sweetheart, not really, since before the war. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to be getting on with, and I’m sure you all do too.” He turned and left.

He’d only just had a smoke, but he needed another already.

* * *

Jimmy had spent his first taste of half-day freedom at the pub. It felt good, after two weeks of the busiest, hardest work of his life, to be able to just _ sit _ , without worrying about how long it would be before Carson caught him skiving and started yelling. For the first time, he wore his _ algiz _ on the outside of his shirt, and he found himself rolling it between his fingers as he drank his mug of local ale. There weren’t many people in the pub so he found himself in peaceful solitude, fidgeting as he took in his surroundings. He’d sat in this room before, the evening before his interview. It seemed more peaceful now than it did then, although that could just be because he didn’t have an interview and a whole house of new colleagues to worry about now.

He drank the last sip of his ale and rose to leave. He thanked the barkeep on the way out and walked down through the village, peering in each shop window as he went. Finally, he spotted some bottles in the window of a shop simply called _ Burt’s _ and stepped in the open door. The shopkeeper (Burt, or Mr Burt, presumably) greeted him enthusiastically and he responded in kind. Jimmy made his way into the small aisle where he could see the bottles of booze.

Oh! Guinness was sixpence a bottle. He’d have to load up on as much as he could carry. He paused, trying to work out how many bottles he could fit in his bag. Twelve? Hopefully. That would be six shillings, just over half a week’s wages. He picked up four bottles and took them up to the counter.

“I’m going to grab a few more, if that’s okay, but I can’t hold them all at once,” he said to the shopkeeper. “Twelve bottles in all.”

“Alright, lad.”

He made two more trips across the shop before handing over three florins.

“I’ve not seen you before,” the shopkeeper said. “I’m Mr Burt.”

“Jimmy Kent. New footman up at the abbey.” Mr Burt nodded with a smile.

“Mr Barrow mentioned your name when he came in for his smokes the other week,” he said. “Nice to put a face to it.” Jimmy nodded with a smile as he carefully placed the bottle in his bag.

“I s’pose I’ll be seeing you again in a couple of weeks, then,” he said. He headed back out of the shop and made his way slowly back up towards the house.

Stopping to stroke a cat added an extra twenty minutes or so to his journey, but it gave Jimmy the time he needed to decide that he probably owed Alfred an apology. He hated the thought of it. How did apologies even _ work _ in 1920 anyway? He’d been hopeless enough at them in his own time. Maybe he’d offer him a bottle of Guinness.

Or maybe that wasn’t the best idea, given how quickly Alfred had got drunk the other night. Jimmy sighed and pressed a kiss to the little brown cat’s forehead. She purred loudly and pushed closer into his face.

“Oh, I gotta go,” he whispered, scritching behind her ears. “But maybe I’ll see you next time I’m out.” He stood up and made to walk away. The cat meowed insistently and tried to follow him. He picked up his pace- she probably had an owner of her own and he somehow doubted Carson would react well to him bringing home a cat.

Jimmy eventually managed to get away from the cat, and arrived back at the abbey at half past six in the evening. When he entered the courtyard, Mr Barrow was outside on a smoke break (how did he ever get any work done? It seemed he was always outside smoking). He didn’t notice Jimmy approaching. He was staring at the ground, taking mindless puffs of his cigarette every now and then. Jimmy watched him carefully, taking in every line of that beautiful face. He’d almost forgotten Mr Barrow’s striking resemblance to the fairy statuette, but now it was impossible to ignore. The figure had to have been made by someone who knew him well, had watched him smoking alone like this.

And watch him was exactly what Jimmy wanted to do. He wanted to sit and stare until the world ran out of cigarettes, until so much time had passed that his statuette made it onto that shelf again… And then he wanted to watch some more.

But he daren’t, not in this time, not when he could be jailed for a single wrong move.

Jimmy paused a few feet away and cleared his throat. Mr Barrow jumped slightly, but regained composure quickly. He smiled at Jimmy.

“You’re back early,” he said. He offered Jimmy a cigarette. He declined. “Bag looks full. Where’d you go?”

“Just into the village, looked around a bit,” he said. He patted his bag lightly. “Got myself some alcohol.”

Mr Barrow chuckled, “Of course you did. Don’t drink it all at once, unless you want another telling off.” Jimmy grinned at him.

“It’s got to last me to my next half day, hasn’t it?” He made to walk back inside. “See you at dinner, then.”

Jimmy raced up the stairs as quickly as he dared with the beers in his bag, eager to avoid Alfred until he’d worked out how to phrase his apology. He went into his bedroom and placed the bag on the bed. He started to move the bottles ever so carefully from the bag into the bottom drawer of his bedside cabinet. He pulled out his manuscript pad and pondered the apology for a moment.

What if he didn’t have to risk getting tongue-tied and saying it wrong? He could simply write a short note and leave it in Alfred’s bedroom. It might a cowardly way of going about it, but Jimmy didn’t really care. He doubted he’d actually apologise in person, so the coward’s way was _ his _ way.

Jimmy tore the corner off of a blank page and picked up his pencil. He wrote: _ Sorry for being a shite friend. -J _

There, that’d do just fine.

He realised then that, like an idiot, he’d put _ all _ of the bottles in the drawer, so he took one back out and left the room with it and the note. He crossed the hallway and slipped into Alfred’s room. God, it was so tidy. It looked almost like a hotel room between guests, perfectly clean and neat with nothing at all that might show anything at all about who slept there.

Ah, where could he put the bottle and note? Everything was so perfectly positioned that Jimmy was somehow scared he’d upset Alfred _ more _ if his apology displaced anything than if he just didn’t apologise at all. Alright. He strode across the room and set the note down on the writing desk. He placed the bottle on top of it, turning it until its label faced perfectly forwards. He shifted it a little more, trying to line it up with the stationery as best as he possibly could. He grimaced- he’d never been much good at making things look neat. It would have to be good enough, though, because he couldn’t spend all evening alone in another man’s room no matter what the reason.

Jimmy left the room, clicked the door shut behind him, and went downstairs to play the piano for a while.


	10. Chapter 10

A week passed without much event, as Jimmy found himself slipping into several easy rhythms with those around him.

The first was his thrice-daily smoke breaks with Mr Barrow, when they stood a few metres apart and chattered mindlessly about whatever (or, more often, _ who _ ever) was annoying them presently. Jimmy found that as long as he kept his eyes on other things, he could maintain composure, but he often stole glances at Mr Barrow and found that he was almost invariably _ watching _ him. Every evening, Jimmy muffled his screams into his pillow as he desperately tried to think what the man could possibly _ mean _ with his attentions. Had he realised that Jimmy liked blokes? Was he looking for some sort of definitive proof? He didn’t even dare to think of what he hoped. Surely no man who’d lived his whole life in this time would long for a man so openly!

The second rhythm was Jimmy’s near endless conversations with Alfred as they polished whatever silverware had been deemed in need of cleaning that day. The conversations were very much one-sided, with Alfred doing the lion’s share of the talking and Jimmy occasionally commenting, just to show he was still listening. Though he would never admit it, he actually found Alfred’s jabbering to be quite interesting when he got into the flow of it. The first ten minutes or so were always torture, as Alfred clumsily tested out various subjects until he settled on what he wanted to discuss properly, but even _ then _ there was something about his ever-present voice that Jimmy found soothing.

The third and final rhythm was a kind of almost-flirting with Ivy. Every action and comment seemed incredibly tame to Jimmy, nothing further than his first ‘relationship’ when he was in Year 7, but the others apparently thought that he was almost scandalous in how forward he was. It was almost frightening, just how minimal it all had to be. He wondered if that was why Mr Barrow had been watching him so closely- Jimmy had got much closer to actual flirting with _ him _ than with Ivy.

_ That _ was what Jimmy found himself thinking about as he absent-mindedly pressed out a tune on the piano. He was only half listening to himself, and couldn’t quite place what he was playing. Maybe it was some version of one of those ‘history metal’ songs Tate liked- half of them seemed to have the exact same riffs.

Whatever he was playing, his mind was elsewhere.

Whenever Jimmy closed his eyes, he saw one of Mr Barrow’s rare smiles. Not the fleeting smiles or the forced ones he plastered on through inside conversations, but the unguarded grin he occasionally gave during their smoke breaks, whenever Jimmy said something that bordered on flirtation. Jimmy had his eyes closed then, at the piano, hoping and unhoping that those smiles meant Mr Barrow was... at least a little bit like him. And maybe even… _ liked _ him, in a similar way.

He wished Mr Barrow was downstairs right now. No matter how conflicted the man’s touches made him, they were the _ only _ touches Jimmy’d had since he’d been in this time. He was sure he’d read somewhere once about people needing about twenty touches a day, and back at home he was used to much _ more _ than that. And now, he so desperately wanted to be held that he’d almost considered pretending to trip into people’s arms. _ Don’t think about Mr Barrow _ , he told himself. Alfred had quite strong arms, and they were long as anything. _ He _ could probably give a decent hug if he put his mind to it.

“What’s this song called then, Jimmy?” Ivy’s voice snapped Jimmy’s mind back into the room. “I’ve not heard it before.”

Jimmy paused in his playing and tried to think, “Not sure, really. I can’t remember the words.” He looked back to where she sat, chair swivelled round to watch him. “What d’you think it should be called?” Ivy’s cheeks flushed bright pink. There it was, _ exactly _ the distraction he wanted.

“Oh, I’m no good at that sort of thing,” she said softly. Jimmy grinned at her.

“Pull your chair over here,” he said. “I’ll play some more, I’m sure you can come up with something brilliant.”

Ivy’s blush deepened another few shades as she came and sat closer to him. She was chewing her lip, and there was something in her eyes that gave Jimmy a strange rush of excitement. In a strange way, she reminded him a little of a girl he’d dated at school, the assigned Chemistry partner who he’d whisked away to a music room to serenade every lunchtime in Year 11, and who had in return brought him a packed lunch of homemade sweets and muffins almost every day. Bella had been just as thrilled by every tiny thing he did as Ivy seemed to be. They shared mannerisms- their blushes, their blinks, the patterns of their steps. It was endlessly comforting to know that cute girls were the same in every generation.

“Put your hand just there,” Jimmy almost whispered, tapping the keys between him and Ivy. “And I’ll show you how to play the tune.” She obliged, and gasped sharply when he cupped his hand over hers. Across the room, Alfred tutted.

Slowly, softly, Jimmy guided Ivy’s fingers across the keys in a simple melody. Was he sweating, or was she? She didn’t seem to be reacting to it. Maybe it was in his imagination. They played the notes over and over and over, and then Jimmy started adding in the chords with his left hand.

“You’re a natural at this,” Jimmy murmured. “Have you played before?”

“No, never,” Ivy replied. Jimmy thought she could probably play the repeated melody herself by now, but he couldn’t bear to take his hand off of hers. Not just yet.

With every note she played, Ivy seemed to relax more and more. Soon, Jimmy started improvising a little, adding a few flourishes to the tune every now and then. Ivy tried to copy, laughing gleefully with every discordant note she added. She really was very pretty.

“The pair of you might want to think about going up to bed soon,” Anna said from behind them. Jimmy realised with a start that the servants’ hall was practically empty. Ivy rose quickly and put her chair back at the table.

“See you in the morning then, Jimmy,” she said. She seemed to be struggling to contain her smile.

“Yeah.” Jimmy stood and made to leave the room, too. They walked side by side up the stairs, Anna close behind them. He’d have to mind what he said. “Thank you for indulging me with all that. I was in a bit of a mood earlier; you really cheered me up.” Ivy swept her fingertip across her cheek and behind her ear, as though tucking away an invisible strand of loose hair.

They reached the point where the routes to the men’s and women’s sides separated and bid each other one last goodnight. Ivy went off on her way, but Anna paused.

“You two seem to be getting along well,” she said, so kindly that Jimmy almost wondered if it was fake. “Ivy’s a lovely girl.”

Jimmy forced a smile, “Yeah, she is. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Jimmy.” Anna didn’t seem too offended that Jimmy hadn’t allowed conversation, so he supposed her kindness really was genuine. Regardless, he didn’t want to talk to her.

Jimmy continued on towards his bedroom, but caught himself pausing to listen as he passed Mr Barrow’s room. Mr Barrow hadn’t been back downstairs after attending to Lord Grantham that evening, so Jimmy wondered slightly if there’d been something to keep him busy for longer than usual.

He could hear nothing from inside Mr Barrow’s room, so he continued to his own and laid fully clothed on his bed for a while, trying desperately to think only of Ivy.

* * *

For some reason, Alfred had chosen the history of paprika as the main topic for his and Jimmy’s silver-polishing conversation. Jimmy found more than a little irony in the fact that something that made food _ less _ boring could be so boring itself, although it was a little more interesting than he’d expected it to be. Only a little, and he’d never admit it.

“So even though it’s only been in Europe for a couple of hundred years, it’s become a staple in Hungarian cooking,” Alfred explained. Jimmy nodded in acknowledgement as he desperately tried to buff away a particularly stubborn bit of tarnish. “The word ‘paprika’ actually comes from Hungarian.”

“What did it used to be called, then?” Jimmy asked. “Before it got brought over to Europe?” Alfred grinned at the encouragement (it was more than Jimmy usually contributed) but didn’t respond right away.

“I’m not sure, actually. I’ll have to read some more about it.”

Jimmy tried not to laugh, “Is it your favourite spice, then?”

“Probably, yeah. That or cinnamon,” Alfred said. “Cinnamon was one of the first ever spices to be traded. It was so important and valuable that it was actually worth as much as gold! It-”

“Does Alfred ever stop talking?” Ivy asked as she walked in with a pot of tea and two cups. “Thought you might need this to get through the afternoon, Jimmy.” She set them down in an empty spot on the table.

“Thanks, Ivy,” Jimmy said. “I never knew spices had so much history to them!” Alfred scowled. God, he was so sensitive!

“Have fun!” Ivy said sarcastically as she left the room.

“I’ll shut up then, if I’m boring you that much,” Alfred grumbled. Jimmy rolled his eyes.

“Oh, come on, no one else in the _ world _ is as interested in spices as you are!” he said. “That doesn’t mean you can’t talk about them. We’re barely teasing at all. Grow a sense of humour.”

“I just can’t believe you’ve turned Ivy against me,” Alfred said. Jimmy snorted. “Do you even like her? Or are you just trying to get in my way?”

“You’re an idiot,” Jimmy said. “Of course I like her. She’s pretty and clever and funny. Who wouldn’t like her?”

“Daisy can hardly stand her,” Alfred pointed out.

“Daisy’s soft on _ you _.” Jimmy took a sip of tea. “She sees her as a rival.”

“Why would you think Daisy’s soft on me?”

Jimmy couldn’t help but laugh out loud at that. Alfred’s scowl deepened. He looked down at his hands and polished angrily.

Neither of them spoke again until all the silver on the table was shining.

* * *

When Thomas finally made it outside for his pre-lunch smoke, about twenty minutes later than usual, Jimmy was already outside. Judging by the growing pile of cigarette butts at his feet, he’d already been skiving off his work for quite some time. Thomas slipped into his usual space a few metres away from him and lit up his first cigarette. Jimmy didn’t seem to notice him, or at least didn’t acknowledge him in the slightest.

“Something troubling you?” Thomas asked.

Jimmy looked up sharply, quite clearly startled. He must really have been lost in thought. Perhaps talking over whatever was on Jimmy’s mind would distract him from his own upcoming problem: Anna had announced at breakfast that Mr Bates would be released from prison very soon, his return putting Thomas’s position in jeopardy.

Jimmy smiled half-heartedly, “It’s nothing, I’m just overthinking things.” Thomas realised Jimmy’s hand was shaking ever so slightly. “As usual.”

“Anything I can help with?”

Jimmy shook his head. A strand of his hair came loose and fell across his forehead. Thomas studied his face. The skin around his eyes was tinged pink and slightly swollen, like he’d been crying. His usual bright smile was nowhere to be seen. The one that replaced it seemed false and empty. What could he possibly be ‘overthinking’ so painfully?

“Well, I’m here if you need to talk,” Thomas said. “You’ve not fought with Alfred again, have you? I’m telling you, he’s not worth the energy.”

Jimmy laughed, “No, it’s been a few days now. He seems to be accepting that I’m not conspiring to turn Ivy against him.”

“Aren’t you?” Thomas asked lightly. Jimmy’s smile shifted into something a little more genuine.

“I s’pose I am a _ bit _. Not really intentional though, she just likes me better.”

“Who wouldn’t?” Thomas surprised himself with that. He’d been testing just a bit, trying to work out if Jimmy _ liked _ Ivy or not. He didn’t want to admit to himself why, but he didn’t suppose he could keep lying to himself after saying _ that _.

“I think just about everyone else here prefers him over me,” Jimmy said. Thomas couldn’t quite tell if the tone of his voice was sad or something else. Maybe he should change the subject.

“That’s because none of them can think for themselves,” he reassured. “They like everyone else to be just as boring as they are.” It was no word of a lie- even before coming to Downton, and even before he realised he liked men, Thomas had found himself an outsider just because he didn’t act exactly like everyone else. However hard he tried, he’d just never been able to be normal.

“Yeah, maybe,” Jimmy said quietly. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. “So what’s Mr Bates like?”

Thomas grimaced.

“Can’t bloody stand him,” he said. “Right sanctimonious bastard, he is. Everyone thinks he’s so perfect.”

“I can’t _ wait _ to meet him,” Jimmy said. Thomas chuckled. “What d’you think’ll happen with… you know, your job? Wasn’t he his Lordship’s valet before he got locked up?”

Thomas grimaced again, “Yes. I’ve been told nothing and I doubt I will until _ after _ he gets back here.” Jimmy winced a little, and Thomas regretted his sharp tone.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t’ve asked.” Jimmy stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. The ash pile at his feet was about half a pack’s worth, now. He was getting through much, much more than usual. Maybe even as much as Thomas. It worried him to no end.

An odd wave of courage came over him, then, and he reached out towards Jimmy’s face.

“Here, your hair’s come loose,” he said, letting his fingers linger for a moment on Jimmy’s forehead as he swept the strand of hair back into place. He cringed slightly (and hoped it didn’t show) at how clammy Jimmy’s skin was. “You sure you’re alright? You seem like you could do with a lie down. I’ll cover for you with Mr Carson if-”

“Stop fussing, I already said I’m fine,” Jimmy spat, colour rising in his cheeks. “I should get back to work.” He stormed back inside, leaving his half-smoked cigarette smoldering on the ground.

Thomas sighed heavily and put his head in his hand. He’d finally managed to alienate himself from the only person in the damn house who still liked him. He’d known for years that nothing good ever lasted for him, but he’d hoped at least that he could manage to maintain one, just _ one _, friendship.

Thomas sighed his way deeper into his tobacco mask and tried to ignore the ever-growing loneliness that throbbed in his veins.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay!! uhh the supernatural-y elements kick up a notch in this one, hope you enjoy. thanks for sticking with me this long!!

When Thomas first opened his eyes, he found himself in an unfamiliar room surrounded (quite literally, as they were sitting in a circle around him) by unfamiliar women.

He blinked and rubbed his eyes, but his surroundings didn’t change.

The girl in front of him, who looked to be in her early twenties at most, stifled a small scream in her closed mouth. The one beside her dug her elbow into her ribs and shushed her. What were their clothes supposed to be, exactly? Some of the women were cloaked in long robes, but others seemed to be in their underwear. Thomas couldn’t be quite sure, though. He didn’t know what women’s underwear looked like. He’d not seen a woman in only her underwear since he’d spied on his older sister and her friends, trying to make himself feel something for them, back when he was only ten years old.

“Where the fuck am I?” he asked as sharply as he could manage. He reached up and touched a finger to his throat. His voice sounded far away, hardly like himself at all.

“In your bed, asleep,” said one of the women behind him. He looked over at her. She was one of the under-wearers, although Thomas wasn’t sure exactly what kind of woman wore knickers made of denim. Were they supposed to have pockets? The pockets came lower down her thighs than the main body of the fabric.

“I’m dreaming?” Thomas asked. The woman shook her head.

“Your body is asleep. Only your essence is here, with us.”

“Wrong fucking person, though,” said the girl who’d not quite screamed.

“At least we got  _ someone _ this time,” argued another. “We’ve been trying twice a week for six months.” The latter thought was directed towards Thomas.

“Trying  _ what _ ?” Thomas asked. “What is this place?”

“Backroom at Rune and Whisper,” said the last woman to talk. “In York.” Oh. Not too far away from his body, then.

_ How I am taking this so calmly? _ he asked himself. Surely he should be panicking about his mind being thirty bloody miles away from his body!

One of the robed girls, the one who’d elbowed the screamer, snapped her fingers.

“We’re not too far off!” she exclaimed. The others all turned their heads to her in eerie unison. “I  _ knew _ I recognised him. It’s the fairy!”

Thomas stiffened. His chest tightened and his not-body felt suddenly, dreadfully cold.

“Oh! Not in… that way,” the girl said. “We’re all queer here anyway. It’s kind of a requirement for joining.” How could she be so… nonchalant about it? Her confidence intimidated Thomas more than he could ever admit, but knowing that he was among others like him made him feel safer than he had in years. Even if the circumstance was so bizarre. “There was a statuette in a while back, looked just like you only with wings.”

The scream girl’s face lit up, “We’re close? Can I-”

“Don’t be such a clown, Tate,” the robed girl interrupted quietly, gripping the scream girl’s hand. “I  _ know _ you miss him, but we have to be sensible.” Who did she miss? Someone Thomas knew, somehow? How did a statuette looking a bit like him have anything to do with, well, anything?

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Thomas began. Politer than usual - he was very much at their mercy. “But what does bearing a likeness to a statuette have to do with… whatever’s going on here? What  _ is _ going on here?”

“We’re witches,” the robed girl explained. Thomas blinked slowly at her in disbelief. “I’m Cressida, by the way. Someone we know vanished last December, literally into thin air. So did the statuette he was about to buy.” Cressida’s eyes locked onto Thomas’s scarred hand. He quickly covered it with his other hand. “Do you cover that, in the daytime? With a cream coloured glove? You smoke, too.”

“How do you know that?” Thomas scowled at her.

“I studied that statuette closely,” she said. The scream girl, Tate (what sort of name was that? Perhaps she went by her surname), leant across and whispered something in her ear. She laughed. Thomas thought it sounded a little exasperated. “Not a chance.”

Somewhere in the room, something emitted a horribly sharp buzzing noise that pulsed in and out. It wasn’t particularly loud, but something about it made Thomas feel suddenly dizzy. He clamped his hands over his ears and shut his eyes.

“What the  _ hell _ is that?” he asked.

“Ah, sorry!” Cressida said. The buzzing stopped. Thomas opened his eyes but didn’t uncover his ears straight away. “It’s half two; we should get you back into your body. We all have places to be in a few hours, wouldn’t mind getting a few hours’ sleep.”

Thomas took a deep, shaky breath and let his hands fall back to his sides. In Cressida’s hand was some sort of small metal box with bright blue, pink and white stripes across it. She set it down beside her, and after a few seconds the stripes disappeared. Thomas stared at it in awe.

“How did it-” He stopped himself mid-question. She’d already told him that she was a witch. If he’d had room to doubt magic after finding himself in the middle of this strange circle, he certainly didn’t now. Presumably, the tool had made that buzzing noise, too. “Nevermind.”

“Okay, so, we’ve never successfully summoned someone’s soul or essence or  _ whatever _ you want to call it-” Cressida looked around at several of the other girls, almost warningly- “So we’re not quite sure if this’ll do anything weird to your body. If it’s okay with you, I’d like to bring you here again so you can report back to us. Today’s the first of September, so shall we say the first of October?”

It took a few seconds for Thomas to understand what she meant, “Um… okay?” He paused and frowned. “What do you mean ‘report back’?” Cressida grinned.

“Tell us if you notice anything that feels strange or different or wrong when you’re back in your body. As far as we know, this is the first time anyone’s done this, outside of closed practices,” she said, moving her hands aimlessly as she spoke. There was a frightening edge to her voice, something like Thomas imagined a mad scientist from a novel might have. “Try to eat something as soon as you can when you get back. See you in a month!”

The girls linked hands and closed their eyes. They all started speaking at the same time, though none of their words seemed to match. Their voices overlapped dizzyingly, a swarm of noise in at least three different languages.

Thomas blinked, and when his eyes opened, he was back on his bed.

God, he was freezing cold.

He tried to stand, to fetch something warm, but his body all but gave way beneath him.  _ Eat something as soon as you can _ . Cressida’s words echoed in his head. Well, she’d definitely predicted at least  _ one _ side effect.

He needed a smoke, and a hot cup of tea.

* * *

Jimmy waited in his room, pretending to be busy getting ready, with his door wide open. The way he’d snapped at Mr Barrow for worrying about him the previous morning had been bothering him since just minutes after he’d done it. No matter how tired and shaky he felt after a near-sleepless night, he  _ had _ to apologise. He knew he wouldn’t be able to feel any better until he did, especially after the noise he’d heard from Mr Barrow’s bedroom and the hallway in the middle of the night. Jimmy’s anxiety had already been high, even higher than usual, for a few days, and it had only been amplified by the noise.

Ah, shit. He was getting himself worked up again.

He picked up the wooden tangle from the bedside cabinet and started fiddling with it. He’d had it in his hands for most of the night, its weight familiar and soothing even if he still wasn’t quite used to the change in  _ material _ .

“Morning, Jimmy.” Mr Barrow startled him towards the doorway. He looked exhausted. Jimmy wondered if he’d slept at all. “What’ve you got there?” Jimmy held the tangle out to him and he took it.

“Mr Barrow, I-” Jimmy started, trying to find the right words. Their eyes briefly met, but Mr Barrow immediately looked back down at the tangle. “I’m sorry for snapping at you yesterday. You were only trying to help.” Mr Barrow smiled slightly.

“‘S alright. I actually came to apologise for pushing you to talk.” He sounded like he was only half paying attention to what he was saying. Quite understandable, given how transfixed he seemed to be on the tangle. Jimmy found himself smiling.

“You can borrow that, if you like,” he said. A rare genuine smile lit up Mr Barrow’s face for a few seconds as he thanked him. “I heard you moving about in the night. Are you alright?”  _ Stupid, stupid, stupid! _ Jimmy berated himself. He was doing the exact thing he’d had a go at Mr Barrow for less than a day ago!

Alfred walked past at exactly that moment, and paused just past Jimmy’s door. Probably planning on listening in to their conversation.

“Had a… really strange dream. Woke up hungry. Nothing to worry about,” Mr Barrow reassured, though Jimmy wasn’t sure he was quite convinced. “Why were you awake?”

Jimmy shook his head, “Just overthinking stuff, same as yesterday.”

Alfred decided to push his way into the conversation, then.

“Same stuff that made you cry?” he asked. Jimmy clenched his fists and scowled.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. Mr Barrow’s face was the perfect picture of heartbreaking worry. Just when Jimmy had convinced him he was fine, too! If Alfred didn’t learn not to butt into other people’s conversations soon, Jimmy might really punch him. In fact, his face was looking more and more punchable by the second. “I’m going down to breakfast.”

Jimmy didn’t bother to close his bedroom door behind him as he headed down the stairs. He could vaguely hear Mr Barrow berating Alfred for sticking his nose in, behind him. He dug his nails into his hands as he walked down and down and down, until a hand came to rest on his shoulder.

“Slow down, Jimmy,” Mr Barrow said, so close that Jimmy could feel his breath against the back of his neck. “Maybe you’d best have this back: I’ll just be fiddling with it all day otherwise.” He pressed the tangle into Jimmy’s hand.

“‘S what it’s meant for,” Jimmy managed to say, trying to hook his fingers around Mr Barrow’s as subtly as he could. He felt like he was melting. He desperately,  _ so _ desperately, wanted to sink into Mr Barrow’s arms and hide away from his responsibilities for the day. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to cope with Mr Cason’s strict standards and harsh words today.

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you today, if you don’t mind,” Mr Barrow said, equal measures soft and firm. “Because I’m worried about you. If you need some space to think, just tell me and I’ll cover for you, okay?”

Jimmy looked across at him, “Yeah, thanks.” He tried to force a smile as he studied Mr Barrow’s face. It looked as though  _ he _ was the one who should be going back to bed. “Same for you, if you need it.”

Mr Barrow trailed his hand down from Jimmy’s shoulder, all the way down his back, and lightly squeezed his hip before letting go just outside the servants’ hall. His face shifted into its usual calm, distant mask as he strode across the room to his seat. Jimmy slipped into his own chair, his skin aching hot everywhere Mr Barrow’s hand had touched.

He shoved the tangle into his pocket and started eating his breakfast.

* * *

It took about three days for Thomas to really feel close to normal again after his nighttime adventure, which he’d convinced himself couldn’t have possibly been anything but a dream. Even if the way it had made his body feel had seemed much more than a coincidence, he’d concluded that he’d only tricked himself into feeling ill after the girl in his dream had told him he might. It was all in his head.

He stepped out of the door into the courtyard and grimaced. O’Brien had apparently finished with Lady Grantham earlier than usual that morning, and was standing in the alcove, cigarette in hand. Thomas had been avoiding her for a while now, and had managed even to avoid smoking at the same time as her for a little over a week. He slipped into his usual position, comforting and familiar as it was, and lit up a cigarette.

After a few minutes, O’Brien spoke.

“What’s been going on with you, then?” she asked.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Have you seen yourself the last few days?” Ah. “You think I can’t tell when you’re ill? I’ve known you long enough.”

“I’m not ill,” Thomas pushed back. Why were people only commenting on it  _ now _ ? Anyone else would’ve been getting endless sympathy from day one.

“You’re not as good a liar as you seem to think,” O’Brien said. “You’ve eaten nothing but bread since Tuesday night.” She reached up and pressed her hand to his forehead. Was he supposed to believe her concern was genuine? That simple, sickening touch made him feel fifteen years old again, made him want to trust every word out of the woman’s vile mouth. He hated it.

He pulled away from her and insisted, “I’m  _ fine _ .”

“Is that so?” She turned her face away from him and gazed out across the courtyard. “Well, then, you can prove it by eating a full lunch.”

“I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

“Suit yourself, then. I was only trying to be kind.” Somehow, that seemed unlikely. “I’m not the only one who’s noticed, though. Jimmy’s been worrying himself about you, too.”

Thomas froze. He knew Jimmy had  _ noticed _ (he’d noticed that first morning and been more gentle and even-tempered than Thomas knew he could since then, even insisting he borrow the little wooden toy he’d called a ‘tangle’), but the idea that he’d been worrying him, enough to tell O’Brien of all people, was utterly heartbreaking.

“He’s said something to you?” Thomas pressed, trying to sound less interested than he was.

“Of course. He cares for you, deeply,” O’Brien replied. Thomas’s heart pounded harder in his chest. “Like you care for him. Neither of you are too subtle about it, either.”

She couldn’t possibly be telling the truth, could she? Did Jimmy truly share his feelings? Just the thought of it was nearly overwhelming.

“D’you really think he’s like me?” Thomas was unable to keep the giddiness out of his voice.

“You think I’d be saying it if it weren’t true?” O’Brien asked. “I would never put you in danger like that.”

Thomas very nearly cried out. In excitement or in relief, he wasn’t sure. But some strange feeling was overtaking him, something he’d not felt in years. The very thought that there really was something between him and Jimmy, that he wasn’t just imagining it…

He pulled the tangle from his pocket and fiddled with it with one hand. At first he’d not been sure about it, but he’d very quickly realised how calming it was. He found it helped him think more clearly.

“What’s that?”

Thomas squeezed it protectively and said, “It’s Jimmy’s. I’m just borrowing it.” Miss O’Brien reached out a curious hand and twisted one of the interlocking limbs. “It… helps. When my mind’s too loud.” Thomas could hardly believe he’d just said that. It’d been at least a year since he’d last intentionally confided anything in O’Brien. He was so torn, between trusting her and not. A few short months ago she'd threatened him, but as cold and heartless as everyone thought she was (which they all thought of  _ him _ , too), he knew just how warm and gentle she could be. She'd cared for him so many times over the years that he was inclined to believe that this was her intention now, too.

And so trust her he did.


	12. Chapter 12

It was finally the morning the house had spent the last week or so (since the date had been announced) counting down to excitedly: Mr Bates was being released from prison.

Jimmy wasn’t sure what to expect of the man. Almost everyone had been enthusiastic about him, telling of how kind and fair he was. Only Mr Barrow and Miss O’Brien seemed to have anything bad to say about him. Jimmy wasn’t stupid, he’d noticed how cold the rest of the staff were towards Mr Barrow even when he tried to do nice things for them. Since Mr Bates’s return had been announced, he’d found himself wondering if he was the reason behind Mr Barrow’s isolation.

Towards the end of breakfast, Alfred asked, “How do we speak to him?” Tactless, even for him.

“Normally,” Mrs Hughes said, her face not quite disapproving. Alfred and Jimmy both stood- it was about time for them to start working. “How do you think you speak to him?”

But Jimmy was curious, too. He was, after all, still adjusting to the social conventions of his new time. He didn’t particularly want to mess up and get on anyone’s bad side.

“But what about prison?” he asked. “Or do we pretend it never happened?”

As he turned towards the door, he came face to face with Anna, her arm linked around a man who could only be Mr Bates.

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” Mr Bates said.

Mrs Hughes set her teacup down quickly, “Oh, welcome back!” Everyone seemed to move at once, then, rising to greet him.

Jimmy found himself glancing towards Mr Barrow. There was something in his face and eyes, not quite despair but something similarly painful. Jimmy felt a strange animosity stir in him. He’d known Mr Bates for about thirty seconds, but he already disliked him quite strongly.

He couldn’t be seen staring, though.

Jimmy followed behind Alfred, though much slower, through to the kitchen with his empty plate. He strained his ears to listen to the conversation in the servants’ hall.

“Thomas. Still here, I see,” Mr Bates said. Jimmy frowned- it was the first time he’d heard Mr Barrow called by his first name, and the first time he’d heard such blatant meanness wrapped up so prettily.

“Mr Barrow now, Mr Bates,” Mr Barrow corrected, his voice a steady monotone that Jimmy just  _ knew _ was concealing some mix of anger and sadness and fear. “And yes, I’m still here. And busy as a bee.”

Mr Carson spoke then, so Jimmy tuned out and hurried into the kitchen. Daisy had a dish in each hand and was grinning so excitedly that Jimmy almost found his disdain for Mr Bates waning. Almost.

“Ooh! Excuse me,” she beamed as she almost crashed into Jimmy on her way through to the servants’ hall. Ivy followed behind her, much less enthusiastic. Her eyes met Jimmy’s and they rolled their eyes in harmony at Daisy’s exuberance.

It was just Jimmy and Alfred in the kitchen, then.

“I’m not sure about him,” Jimmy said. “There’s just something…”

“I think he’s nice, but neither of us exactly know him yet, do we?” Alfred replied. “The only people who have anything bad to say about him are the ones no one likes anyway.” He paused and lowered his voice. “Don’t tell my aunt I said that about her.”

Jimmy snorted, “I won’t. You’re not right to say that no one likes her, though. I-”

“You get on well with her, I know.” Alfred sounded almost bitter about it. “‘S only because you’re so cocky, she doesn’t bother you.”

“You don’t know me at all, if that’s what you think,” Jimmy said. How many times had he cried after talking to her? He’d lost count. But she’d never actually said anything explicitly  _ hurtful _ , and he’d certainly never felt like she was trying to upset people.

“There’s no way that’s a front,” Alfred said disbelievingly. “You’re the most confident bloke I’ve ever known!” Jimmy laughed, glad that he came across that way. His mask of egotism had been forged on the playgrounds and in the hallways of every hellish school for the sake of  _ survival _ . “You’re bloody having me on, aren’t you? Prick.”

“D’you have to be so-”

He was cut off by Mrs Patmore and the girls coming back in then, so it was back to work as they prepared the trays to go upstairs for breakfast service in yet another frosty silence.

* * *

Thomas had known from about ten minutes after he woke up that it was most definitely not going to be a good day. His mood had soured further and further with every word he heard Mr  _ fucking _ Bates say, but the final straw had come when Mr Molesley said (with a  _ smile _ ) that he supposed Thomas would be ‘looking for something to do’ now, since the bastard’s return.

And so he’d excused himself to the boot room, where he busied himself with things that didn’t need doing with any sort of  _ urgency _ , but which would keep him from losing his temper in front of everyone. In front of Jimmy, especially. Everyone else had made it quite clear already that Thomas couldn’t possibly get any worse in their eyes.

He touched his inside breast pocket, where Jimmy’s tangle rested. Just feeling it there steadied him a little, even if he couldn’t take it out or use it somewhere so visible. Was he scrubbing the boot in his hand too hard? Finding the right pressure was something he’d always struggled with, especially when he was stressed.

“- alright?” Thomas looked up as he realised someone was talking to him. Jimmy was standing just inside the room, his pink cheeks and half-frown a sure sign that he’d been bickering with Alfred again.

“Sorry, what was that?” Thomas asked. Jimmy walked closer and leant against the workbench.

“You alright?” he repeated. “Mr Molesley’s a bloody idiot.”

“I’m sure I had it coming,” Thomas said, trying to smile. He reached his hand up to Jimmy’s soft, flushed cheek and touched it with more confidence than he’d expected of himself. “You’re all red. Been arguing again? Alfred’s not worth the energy.” Was it his imagination, or was Jimmy leaning into his touch?

“I’ll thump him soon if he doesn’t find himself a brain, I swear.”

Thomas dropped his hand from Jimmy’s skin. He’d lingered long enough.

“Don’t sink to his level,” he advised. “And don’t rise to it. You’re better at the job than he is, Mr Carson’ll have to realise that soon enough.”

It wasn’t a lie- Jimmy was both more coordinated and more intelligent than Alfred. His only real flaw was his temper, but even that childish irritability was less of a bother than Alfred’s petulant whining. Perhaps Carson had been the clumsier, less intelligent footman in a pair back in his own day. It would certainly explain why he’d always favoured William, and why he now favoured Alfred.

“I s’pose. It’s just-” Jimmy cut himself off. “Nevermind.”

“What? If it’s bothering you, I want to know,” Thomas pressed. Jimmy shook his head.

“It’s just… He’s taking Ivy out tonight, right? It’s not his half day or hers,” he said. “Mr Carson would never let  _ me _ step out with someone like that.”

Yes, Thomas knew exactly how he felt. Exactly how… Thomas somehow found the courage to meet Jimmy’s eyes. O’Brien had been right, hadn’t she? He and Jimmy really were alike. They were-

“It was the same for me, when I was a footman,” he said carefully. “Mr Carson’s never liked me. No one ‘round here has, really. But you-” He paused and pointed for emphasis. “Are much more likeable than I am. You’ll find your place here. Everyone likes you well enough already!”

“You’re likeable, Mr Barrow,” Jimmy said. Thomas’s heart beat faster. “I don’t know how the others don’t see it.”

“I don’t suppose we’ll ever know what’s going on in their heads,” Thomas said with a smile that felt ever so forced and false, but he couldn’t have managed one any other way. “But I’m glad I’ve a friend in you, at least.”

Jimmy smiled and said, “I should probably be getting on now. If you’re alright.”

“Better than I was before you came in,” Thomas said, his smile turning much more genuine. Jimmy started towards the door.

“You’re a good man, Mr Barrow,” he said. “Even if the rest of them say otherwise.” He walked out down the corridor, leaving Thomas positively melting as he tried to clean the boot in his hands.

_ You’re a good man _ , Jimmy’s voice echoed in his head.  _ A good man _ . A good man.

For the first time in a while, Thomas Barrow smiled with no one there to see it.

* * *

As Jimmy walked upstairs to bed, he felt himself trembling slightly from his strange conversation with Mr Barrow. He’d panicked slightly when he’d been asked about his family, but the bullshit-machine that time travel had installed in him seemed to have a sense of self-preservation about it. It definitely made sense, he thought, to be seen as an orphan in this time when his parents hadn’t been born yet. Hopefully it would discourage the others from asking about his family, too. It had always been a bit of a sensitive subject for him.

He entered his bedroom and shut the door behind him. It was past midnight already, so he took his pill before he changed into his pyjamas. He climbed into bed and tried not to think any more on the exhausting day he’d had. The words Mr Barrow had said ever so casually,  _ well, I love you _ , circled through his head as he buried his face in his pillow and drifted off into dreams.

Through his hazy slumber, Jimmy felt something warm and soft on his lips. This wasn’t particularly unusual- he often dreamt of being kissed, and recently his dreams had featured one coworker in particular. His eyes fluttered slightly, trying to open, but he kept them shut. It was just a dream. No need to torture himself.

A knock at the door startled him.

“Sorry to wake you, Jimmy, but I’ve got to ask-” Alfred’s voice should’ve woken him, but it… didn’t? The lips pressed to his withdrew quickly. “Oh my…”

He was awake already?

“Get off!” he yelled, slamming his arms out in front of him and opening his eyes to see Mr Barrow stumbling back from the bed. His heart felt as though it might explode. “Just get the bloody hell off me!”

As Jimmy leapt out of the bed, he saw something in the way Alfred was looking at him that chilled him to his core.

“Alfred, it’s not what you think.”

“Don’t do that, please,” Mr Barrow said. Jimmy couldn’t place what was in his voice. He didn’t want to. “Alfred doesn’t matter, no one’ll believe a word he says. He’s nothing.”

“What are you doing?” Jimmy’s hands shook horribly as his heart pounded and pounded and pounded and pounded. “Why are you in here?”  _ Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck _ .

“Because of what you said! Because of all there is between us…” Mr Barrow trailed off as he reached his hand up to Jimmy’s cheek. Jimmy slapped his hand away, flinching back from him so hard he almost fell over.

“There’s nothing between us, except my fist if you don’t get out!” It was an empty threat. He didn’t have it in him to throw a single punch. He- oh,  _ God _ \- he could hardly breathe. “And if you tell any-”

“But what about the things you said?”

“I said nothing except get out!” His body was moving by itself, now, grabbing Mr Barrow and shoving him towards the door. “Go on, get out, Thomas!”

Jimmy slammed the door shut behind him just as his legs gave way. He squeezed his eyes tight shut and clamped his hands over his mouth, desperately trying to slow his breathing.  _ Oh, God _ … He could vaguely hear voices in the corridor, but his pulse was throbbing in his ears too loud to make out a single word of it. His stomach was turning painfully and every breath caught in his throat. The effort it took to drag himself across to the wash basin was  _ agonising _ , but he knew it was necessary.

Tears streamed down his face and blurred his vision as he retched into the bowl. His skin felt like it was on fire. His night clothes felt filthy. Why? Surely he was overreacting? Mr Barrow’s actions were so,  _ so _ close to what he had been dreaming of for at least a week. So why was it hurting him so much?

He looked up at the mirror, breathing ragged and painful. It felt like his skin was a size too small, pressing in and in and in on him. He couldn’t- he had to get changed. He  _ had _ to get changed. He pulled off his pyjamas and tossed them on the floor, then headed to the wardrobe to find his other set.

He couldn’t stop moving. If he tried, he’d surely fall apart again.

So he washed his face and brushed his teeth, and then paced about the room for God knows how long until he thought that maybe, just maybe, he might be able to settle. His heart was still too fast and fluttery, his skin clammy as anything. He still felt sick.

He sat down shakily on the bed, but neither his body nor his mind would comply. The ghost of Mr Barrow’s lips burned on his own as he tried to lay back against the pillow. He  _ couldn’t _ go back to sleep. He couldn’t be alone. He-

Jimmy silently crept across the hall towards Alfred’s bedroom and slipped inside.

* * *

The first thing Alfred’s brain registered when he woke up was someone telling him to do just that. The second was that someone (probably the same person) was shaking him much more roughly that he found reasonable or comfortable.

He opened his eyes and stared hazily up at whoever it was as his vision slowly shifted into focus.

“Jimmy? What are you… doing in here?” he asked, slowly sitting up and squinting at the clock. Bloody hell, it was three o’clock in the morning! No wonder he was still tired.

“I can’t- I- I just-”

Oh, he was upset about something again. What could it- ah.

“Slow down.”

Jimmy was shifting his weight from foot to foot and chewing his hand and running his fingers through his hair over and over and over again. His eyes were red and swollen. He kept opening his mouth to speak, but couldn’t seem to get the words out.

“Sit down,” Alfred said after a few minutes, getting up himself. “I’ll get you a glass of water while you think what you want to say.”

He started towards the door, but Jimmy grabbed his arm.

“I can’t- I don’t want to be alone right now,” he managed to say before he burst into tears.

“Right. Okay.” Alfred tried to peel Jimmy’s hand off him, but his grip was too tight. “Could you maybe… let go of my arm? You’re hurting me.” He loosened his hand, but didn’t quite let go. “Let’s sit down, then.”

Alfred tried to lead Jimmy to the bed to sit, but he apparently had other ideas. He dropped himself onto the floor so heavily that he almost pulled Alfred down with him.

“What is it with you and sitting on the floor?” Alfred asked, settling next to him and crossing his legs. “The bed and the chair are both perfectly comfortable.”

Jimmy shook his head, choking out a strange almost-laugh between sobs. He finally let go of Alfred’s arm, bringing his hand up to his face to cover it. Alfred wasn’t quite sure what to do, so he tried, slightly awkwardly, to pat Jimmy’s back. Jimmy flinched away from him, so hard that he ended up about a metre away. Touching was clearly  _ not _ the right option.

He was even  _ less _ sure what to do now.

He opted to just sit, slumped back against the side of the bed. He wanted to go back to sleep, but it wouldn’t be right for him to send Jimmy away in the sort of state he was in.

After a while, when Jimmy’s tears had stopped, Alfred found it in himself to say something.

“Are you going to tell Mr Carson?” he asked. “I’ll come with you, if you want.” Jimmy scowled at him. “Y’know, for support.”

“I can’t  _ tell Carson _ !” Jimmy said. “And don’t you bloody think about telling him, either.”

“Why not? You can’t let him get away with it.”

“Shut up. I don’t want to talk about this,” Jimmy spat. Why did he feel the need to be so bloody rude all the time?

“Alright. Can I go back to bed now?”

“Course. Sorry.” Jimmy dropped his head onto his knees. “Can I- D’you mind if I stay in here? I don’t want to be in there right now, not by myself.”

“Alright,” Alfred said, climbing back into his bed. He positioned himself carefully so that he could still see Jimmy. “Y’know, I were just starting to warm to him.”

“What?” Jimmy looked over his shoulder at him, his body still scrunched up on the floor like a sad ragdoll.

“Mr Barrow. I was just starting to think that he maybe wasn’t as nasty as he seemed,” Alfred said. Jimmy sighed and stuck his face back into his arms. “But I were right in the first place, weren’t I?”

“Shut up, Alfred.”

“I’m just saying-” He rolled over, onto his other side. “I understand why you’re upset. He was your friend, you trusted him, and then he does… that. He’s… that sort. He-”

“Shut  _ up _ , Alfred!” Jimmy repeated much more forcefully, his voice muffled by his pyjamas. “If you’re going back to sleep then bloody well go back to sleep.”

“Right. Sorry.” Alfred shut his eyes.

“Thanks,” Jimmy murmured. “G’night.”

“Night, Jimmy.”


End file.
